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#stray kids bang chan
mykoreanlove · 3 days
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💔 pt.2
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(in case you missed part 1) ➡️💔
„Channie, are you leaving me?“
Chan’s whole vibe changed in milliseconds, dropping from confusion to indifference.
„Yeah. I am“, he said flat.
Panic arose in your body, making your hands tremble with fear.
„What? Why?“
He pushed the bowl to the side and let out a deep sigh.
„It’s just like you said. I’m over you, y/n.“
Your heart was beating fast, matching the ringing in your ears.
„Is that all you have to say? You’re over me? Just like that?“
Your rage was fighting with the anxiety in your body, currently winning this battle of emotions.
Chan shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and explained himself, seeming utterly unfazed.
„What do you want me to say?“
Tears started to form in the brink of your eyes.
„Tell me the truth“, you whispered silently.
„Fine. Everything you said was true. My eyes don’t sparkle anymore when I look at you. It’s hard for me to face you at all. And I don’t laugh at your jokes anymore because I can’t stand you talking. It’s a nuisance, y/n.“
Each of his words hit you like a knife, stabbing your heart with venomous hate. The tears were falling by now, straining your cheeks and ruining your make up.
„And no, I don’t buy flowers for you anymore because they would rot away in your presence anyway. Same with dates, I don’t want to spend time with you. Or be even near your presence.“
His eyes were filled with pure hate, getting darker by the second.
„And as for sex? The mere thought of touching you disgusts me. You are repelling to me, y/n“, he finally spat out.
Chan just stood there and watched while you were sobbing, fighting to breathe, fighting to survive this hurt.
Then, he snorted, laughing at you with the utmost disgust.
You wiped away your tears and looked at him, eyes all puffy and red.
„You really are a great fucking actress“, Chan applauded.
You stopped crying instantly, dropping your farce.
„Did you really think I didn’t know you were fucking my friend behind my back?!“
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mo-notmoe · 2 days
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Happy 6 years with Stray Kids!!!!!! ❤️‍🔥🍾
We'll stay as long as you like!
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ilwonuu · 19 hours
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-‘๑’- don’t you wanna? -‘๑’-
↬ kim seungmin
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ꙮ pairing- nonidol!seungmin x fem reader, established relationship,dom!seungmin x sub reader
ꙮ summary- your boyfriend loves for other people to hear how good he makes you feel.
ꙮ warnings- slight voyeurism(???)(, hyunjin, jeongin, and chan are listening to them…), unprotected sex (no one is surprised), dirty talk, seungmin is crazyzysyys, riding, hickeys, kissing, lmk if i missed anything
ꙮ a/n-literally no one asked for this.. i wrote this while high(im crazy while high) I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE HAPPY 600💖💖
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seungmin has been playing video games all day you assume. as soon as you come home from work he’s at his desk playing. his eyes getting darker when he sees you come through the door.
“hi min.” you say as you lean down to hug him. he’s pulling you on his lap with a half smirk. “hi gorgeous.” his hands are wrapped around your waist now as you straddle him.
“how was work?” you shrug with a sigh laying your head on him. “tiring?” he asks you as he plays with some of your hair. you nod with a smile.
“i could help you relax.” he says loud enough for you and his friends on the call to hear. seungmin hears chan laugh nervously through his headphones. he moves one of the headphones off his hear as he hears jeongin voice.
“are you really doing this with us on the call?” you hear jeongin’s question through his headphones which causes you to shoot a look at seungmin. “that okay baby?” he asks you quietly.
“y-yea.” you don’t know why you agreed so easily. did you want his friends to hear you? maybe.. but seungmin loved the thought of his friends hearing your moans from him. you felt your body heat up at the thought.
“hyunjin is on the call too.” seungmin admits looking at you for your reaction. you nod taking your shorts off. seungmin’s smirk is just getting bigger.
he pulls his sweatpants down look at you take your underwear off. “come sit on it baby.” he shrugs his underwear down. you straddle his waist as you feel him line you up with his tip.
he fists some of you hair as you finally sit down on him. he is quick to start bouncing you up and down. “seu-min oh fuck-“ his mouth is sucking against your neck as he moves your hips.
you can’t hear any of the boys on the call but thinking about this hearing you, you got wetter and seungmin loved to call you out.
“you’re so w-wet shit. what are you thinking about huh? you thinking about how they can hear how i’m fucking you like a good girl? i bet you wish they could see you too huh? fucking slut.” your already unable to form words to respond.
“look at you. doing anything to take my dick. i bet you were thinking about this all day.” he teases you as he starts to thrust up into you.
“seungmin- too much!-“ he just smirks at you. “you love being fucked like a slut tho, huh? say it.” he grabs your face to look at him. “i-i love it! p-please.”
he smirks pulling you into a messy kiss. “ride baby- fuck just like that.” the three other boys are not sure what their reactions should be.
but their all obviously hard. your moans and obvious sounds of your arousal is filling the room. “you guys- shit hear her? so fu-fucking good.” he says the last couple of words while watching you go completely dumb on him.
“gonna cum slut? let go baby.” he’s guiding your hips along with his thrusts up. his thrusts hitting deeper. your eyes are rolling so far back, seungmin just watches you with a smirk.
“min- mm coming.” he just groans. “cum baby. fuuck- good girl.” he watches your leg twitch as you cum on his dick. “want my cum slut?” he asks already knowing the answer.
“please seungmin-“ his thrusts are fast and sloppy as he cums deep inside you. “shit- you take all of it- fuck baby.” the two of you trying to catch your breath. “let me get off call then we can shower?” seungmin asks you before you hear muffled voices from the headset.
“what are we supposed to say-“ hyunjin asks through the call with his voice sounding kinda shaky. “idk it was kinda hot.” jeongin admits with no shame.
“im getting off the the call. i’ll get on tomorrow.” your boyfriend chimes in. “uh bye-“ chan begins to say before you hear him cut the call.
“did you like it?” he asks as he slowly pulls out of you. “of course-“ he’s cutting you off with a kiss. “i knew you would. let’s go shower.”
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skzhua · 3 days
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a price i'm willing to pay | part 26 - welcome back.
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MASTERLIST
pairing: ceo!bang chan x entrepreneur!reader
genre: social media!au, arranged marriage, fake relationship, fluff, angst.
warnings: swearing, might have suggestive bits.
summary: following a scandal threatening the survival of your business, you have no choice but to associate yourself with a competitive company.
taglist 1: @lenilla15 | @muddy-waters | @nanaspalette | @nattisbored | @popcatx0 | @vanblack95 | @aestheticsluut | @thanxxskz | @minhoino | @taetertotsv | @luvscrazy | @lethallyprotected | @foxinnie8 | @jisuperboard | @jihanlovic | @soobin-chois | @jinxwhore28 | @purplelandsworld | @yeojoongiee | @smugrogerina | @jaehyunicecream | @urmomlikeslinotoo | @syprosight | @thesassy-mia | @chaotic-world-of-the-j | @heartsforlevi | @miyakoa | @seungincore | @skzsilentcryy | @owotalks | @hanjsquokka | @evermourning | @bangchansbae | @qweebarse | @linosllvr | @kpopsstuffs | @tinyelfperson | @jabmastersupriseee | @imsiriuslyreal | @chrizzztopherbang | @ilovejeongin_007
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Copyright © 2024 skzhua. All rights reserved.
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dwaekkilinos · 18 hours
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savior complex (pt. 1) | bang chan
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summary: Your father had wielded you to become a machine; a weapon. And a machine you would become. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat. He taught you how to protect; specifically how to protect your family. But he never taught you how to survive with other groups, especially when their leader seems to have it out for you.
pairing: bang chan x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | strangers/enemies to lovers + zombie apocalypse au, angst, fluff, smut word count: 19.9K chapter summary: you'd always known the end, and it had always known you. you just didn't know the beginning would be waiting for you when your time finally came. warnings/notes: zombie apocalypse au so . . . blood, guts, gore, sad, sad, sad. beware. lots of inspo from every zombie thing i've literally ever seen (twd, tlou, train to busan, etc.), typos probably, parental death, actions of violence and murder, religious TRAUMA, religious undertones, reader does not believe in god but she's deeply influence by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, reader comes from a small toen and it's not explicitly stated where she's from but hollows are mentioned, hunting, reader wishes for death multiple times, chan goes by chris, no smut in this chapter but there will be in every chapter after, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3
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chapter one: i know the end (and it knows me) ( series masterlist | next → )
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Sometimes you felt like a ghost. It happened when the world was so silent that you could almost hear the beat of your unsteady heart pounding in your chest; when everyone else was asleep and you stayed up, eyes watchful and searching for threats. That was when you felt like the lost faces that haunted you.
It hadn't always been this way, at least not until the world ended. Most of the time you tried not to think about it. You tried not to think about much except survival these days.
Because that was smart. Surviving was smart. Anything else was stupid; anything else would get you killed.
Ironic, how you used to fear that very thing. Death. Now it was all you knew.
The apocalypse had come.
You knew how it sounded. Honestly, you didn't believe it when it first happened. You had been too afraid to admit it; too scared that if you did, you could never go back. There was no going back anyway. That was something you wished you had known back then. And as you sat on a log in the middle of those dark woods, overlooking your group who all slept silently while you stayed up, bloody knife in hand, and eyes watching for threats, it was hard to ignore the fact that this was your cruel reality.
Because the reality of it all was: you were living on borrowed time, trying your best to do right by your father and keep your family alive. You'd faltered that night, dotting the line between protection and predation.
And now . . . now you couldn't help but think about the beginning. How you would've never ended up like this if things had been different. But things hadn't been different. Things had happened exactly the way they had, and it'd left you with rot in your bloodstream and hate in your heart.
That was what made you clutch the knife closer, nearly cutting your own flesh. Because things hadn’t been different, but they also hadn’t always been this way. You hadn’t always been like . . . this.
You supposed it was because it was easy to kneel when you were just a girl. It was easy to ignore the ever-present scabs on your knees when you didn’t know any better. It was easy to tear yourself down the middle, pulling stitches from the back of your legs when you knew it’d all be re-sewn by morning. It was easy back then when the world hadn’t died.
From the moment you were brought into the world, barely kicking and silently screaming like it was a sin to voice your pain, you had been taught to be that girl; that easy, complacent girl with not so much as a rotten thought. From the moment you were born, you had been taught the foundation of the Church and its vocation, and it had carved its way into your rotten flesh even when the world was no more.
At age four, you were in the pews, listening to the words of God while creating imaginary friends in the statues. At age seven, communion. Then at age eight, you had begun to become an altar girl, fetching and carrying, ringing the altar bell, bringing up the gifts and the book, among other things—essentially being a servant to God. At age fourteen, confirmation. At fifteen, your mother doused you in holy water before your first date with a boy from school. Sixteen, heartbreak, praying to God and begging for him to help ease it all, only to be left with no response . . . even after all you had done for him.
Seventeen and the stitches down your legs remained undone, the scriptures now more of a question than a statement. Then . . . eighteen, the timer clicked into place, and you felt yourself begin to rot along with the world, forcing you to realize your entire life was just a cycle of kneeling before God, praying, and asking for forgiveness for your sins.
It had been easy to kneel when you were just a girl; when you didn’t know any better. And then it happened.
It.
Armageddon.
The Rapture.
The fucking apocalypse.
It didn’t matter what you called it. Doomsday was still doomsday even dressed up with fancy scriptures and sacred wine.
The apocalypse had come. Humans were deemed horrible creatures by some almighty who you didn't give a fuck to acknowledge. It didn't matter. Someone or something had deemed the human race unworthy.
The apocalypse had come, and you were deemed worthless. You were made to die. It was inevitable.
The apocalypse had come. There was talk that it had begun in the North. But much wasn’t known in your town. Now you realized they tried to keep it a secret. It was a way of controlling everyone, you supposed, but not like it mattered much now.
That was just how things were. Your mother refused to let you and your younger sister watch the news, refused to let you search anything about what was going on in the world, adamant that everything was lies and those lies would cloud your mind. A religious town bordering on a commune that resembled a cult perhaps just a tad too much. You realized all this now, of course, but back then your knees were still covered in scabs from kneeling before a God who would never come. Back then your mother kept you kneeling until the final bell tolled, her hand firmly clutching your shoulder to keep you in place.
You were only eighteen then. And while the outside world was torn apart month by month, its people haunted by death piled upon death, your town continued on as it always had. The whispers of a war that would end the world were just whispers, covered up by scriptures that the local preacher would sight every Sunday morning just after you’d collected the eggs from the chicken coop and put on your best dress like your mother had always taught you.
But it was different for you, even back then. Because while it had been easy to kneel when you were a girl, you had begun to grow. Eighteen then, but you had begun to see the flaws within the Church when you were sixteen. And by eighteen, you knew better.
By eighteen, you could see the sweat beading along the preacher’s forehead. By eighteen, you could hear wavering in your mother’s voice when she proclaimed that this was just a test. That this was meant to happen. That the Bible had always predicted this, and if you remained faithful, then you would be saved . . . spared.
But by eighteen, you knew better.
It took one quiet night and a hammering heart for you to sneak into your father’s study and head straight for this desktop. It took even less time to discover what had become of the world. One. Two. Three clicks and then . . .
You remembered the choking feeling bubbling up your chest as your eyes scanned the news articles. A virus. One so horrible and unforgiving that it could take a healthy vessel, and within twenty-four hours, the body would succumb to death. But, you��d seen stuff like this before, right? You knew there had been plenty of diseases and viruses and they all had cures. They all had to have cures. They had to.
That was just the thing: no matter how hard you looked, you couldn’t find any article that explained how this virus came about. It was unknown, deadly, spreading rapidly, and there was no way of telling when it’d reach your town. It was just . . . just . . . (It was the first time you truly felt helpless.)
You remembered staying up with the sun, looking for answers, only to come out empty-handed. And when your father discovered you in his study that morning, you nearly confessed right away, sobbing into his arms. But no shame was brought upon you that day.
Your father had been a good man. He had loved you so. He had loved his family, no matter the consequences or conditions.
This town, your town, was small. It consisted of around only three thousand people give or take, all of which were either Christian, secluded, or . . . your father. In all the years you had been alive, not once had your father stepped into the Church. You never asked. You never worried. Your mother just always told you your father was busy every single time, and you believed her because back then, you’d trusted her with all of you.
As you grew, your suspicions of him did, too, but you remained silent as you always had in life. And it was only until that morning when he wrapped you in his arms and let you cry into his shoulder, did you realize why he never entered the Church, why he never spoke the prayers your mother praised, why neighbors would talk of his name only in hushed conversations.
He didn’t believe.
No, he believed in something just not . . . this sacred word your town so desperately worshipped. And that morning, he told you the truth. From his childhood to how he ended up in a town like this. He told you it all, and then he told you the truth. He told you how your mother was scared (how she always had been) and how one day he hoped with enough trying, she’d see the world for what it was ( . . . she never did). And then he told you about the virus, and everything was so much clearer.
The town had everyone convinced this was some kind of test. There was no virus to them. This was the reaping. The scriptures were true to them. And so every Sunday, you were forced to acknowledge that Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death—the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse had come to earth with the power to destroy humanity.
That was how it had been explained to your town, and all its people believed. A sickness had struck the world, yes, they told that much truth, but they chalked it all up to being some kind of plot point in God’s plan. To top it off, it was said that if the townspeople all repented and did right by his name, then salvation would be given.
That was what was told, and that was what was believed.
You remembered the preacher’s voice even now.
Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, "Come." I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.
— Revelation 6:1–2
That scripture haunted you just as your father’s face did, but back then you hadn’t realized the detriment it would have on you. Back then, you played your part. Back then, you dressed as your mother advised, went to church, and listened, and then, when all was said and done and your mother had gone to her room, you snuck off to accompany your father on his hunts. And during those times, you’d learn the truth.
While the two of you hunkered down, waiting for deer to pass through your side of the woods, he told you about what was going on with the rest of the world. He explained how the CDC had claimed this thing; Pestilence (as your town believed) was some kind of virus, yes, only they wouldn't release the survival rate except for a few things that stated it was deadly, spread rapidly, and anyone could have it, but by the time symptoms had started to kick in, it would be too late.
As the weeks went by, as the more hunting extravaganzas you went on with your father piled up, his news became more worrisome. At first, the virus was contained in the North of the world, but as it took more lives and less information about it was being provided to the public . . . people began to panic. Hysteria spread throughout the world. Cases of this unknown virus peaked, and the government released statement after statement informing the public that face masks would be required to prevent the virus from spreading and travel restrictions would soon be put into place.
Only by that time, it was too late.
Carriers of this unknown virus had already traveled far and near, spreading the disease throughout the world. This so-called Pestilence might have only been given reign to a quarter of the world, but his disease had spread farther than his radius.
And while you had been young, you realized that this virus had only one purpose: to kill. There was no survival rate. No hope.
The world shut down soon after more and more people started dropping like flies, succumbing to the miserable disease that left them with boils and blisters covering their skin. Hospitals became overrun. Schools were wiped out with kids coming home with this deadly virus. Workplaces were abandoned, the people wishing to stay at home with their families, too afraid to step outside without any real knowledge of how this virus worked.
Your town remained oblivious, too, as the region shut down, gates being made so no one could enter or leave. It was safer that way they claimed. All of those who could be saved would be saved and helping those seeking a refuge was against the rules. It all felt like some kind of sick plan if you had anything to say about it.
By the time your father had taught you how to shoot your first deer without you sniffling in fear, Vaccines were finally attempted, but nothing worked; the disease only spread, and more people died.
Then . . . it all just stopped.
But your town continued to spread its lies.
The story remained the same even all these years later. You remembered how while you had learned the virus was supposedly coming to an end, your town still painted the picture of the Horsemen. Tales of Pestilence’s reign still remained.
They went on and on about how he rose from the depths of Hell. Pestilence had come. He, who sat on his white steed, had a bow, a crown that had been gifted to him by his gods had come, and when he had, he went out conquering. And so he did.
Until he was put to rest; until his conquering had come to an end. You listened with half a heart as the preacher went on and on about how his time had ended, yes, but this was not the end. All you had to do was keep praying, keep repenting, keep . . . kneeling, and you’d be saved.
But you knew better.
While others would attend midnight mass in addition to morning, you claimed you had to pray on your own, and when your mother had left with your sister on her hip, you snuck off with your father to learn of the world. You snuck off to better your shooting arm, to seek comfort in the only person who seemed to have their head screwed on right, to shoot ducks and geese and deer and everything in order to keep your town fed while everyone else prayed to a God that wasn’t doing half your work. And yet, every time, every kill, your father knelt beside the animal and prayed, until you had begun to do the same.
You weren’t sure why he did it. You had never asked. You never thought you needed to. (Now you would’ve done anything to know the answer.)
And so . . . life went on like that. Completely cut off from the world without the help of the internet your father provided for the two of you, life went on.
The virus no longer spread further, and many believed it was all just some hoax. News stations came to life again, but not much else was restored. That was how everyone found out the virus had concluded. Hell, even you remember being twenty-one years old, having your first legal shot with your father in the middle of the woods while the two of you watched news reporter after news reporter claim the virus had mutated and mutated so much to the point our bodies had accumulated a natural resistance to it.
But you couldn't believe it.
Three whole years of this deadly disease taking out population upon population, and then it all ceased. It felt almost too good to be true.
Of course, the town believed this too. Pestilence had conquered, and that was just the problem.
Every day, day in and day out, words spread throughout the hollow, the word in the Church mutated each week, even your mother who had spent the last three years praying to Jesus, Joseph, and Mary; your mother who had gone through rosary after rosary begging for God to have mercy on your family; your mother who had always forced you to attend those days at church on Sunday went around the house, boarding up the windows and hiding the special silverware in the basement, claiming that he would come next.
He has conquered, she had hissed over your shoulder when you and your father came back from one of your hunts.
Pestilence's reign had ended (according to your mother, who you were almost certain had a few screws loose). You didn’t believe it for a second, ignoring your mother's desperate ramblings.
War will come, she warned.
War will come.
But . . . you knew if something did come, it wouldn’t be this War.
And then . . . then he did.
The first sighting of the dead coming back was spotted just months after the virus that had plagued millions had ceased. And this time . . . the town allowed its folk to see the reports. Even your mother had brought the television from the basement to witness the dead rise . . . or rather . . . War. The news stations had captured a recording of these . . . people; people who had suffered from the virus coming back, and then with only their teeth, tearing any live thing apart. The recording was aired all across the world, fear, and hysteria spreading like wildfire.
The government was still up and running at this point with only one mission: to shoot down these seemingly reanimated corpses before they could cause more harm. People believed this to be a fluke, but your mother's words had stuck with you.
War will come.
It was all a little hazy now, but you remembered bits and pieces of the world back then. War had been quick, ruthless, and determined.
This was no man. This was War.
And it all became clear soon after.
While Pestilence had been silent, War had wanted an audience.
The things he could do; the people he could hurt . . . it was all so gutting. Those lost to the virus kept coming back, all with one purpose: destruction. With one bite, their victims would soon fall ill to that same virus, and then once it had taken their body, they’d come back, reanimated with the same gruesome purpose.
The government finally fell when the dead could no longer be stopped. Quarantines dropped, people ran, and everything just . . . stopped. These creatures tore through cities, sinking their teeth into civilians. And you watched it all on the television, until that, too fell, leaving the rest of the world in the dark.
That was when you realized just how real all of this was. That was when you realized the past three years of hunting with your father was not just something the two of you would look back on and laugh about one day when this virus was over. No . . . it seemed . . . it seemed you couldn’t quite see the end or maybe . . . maybe you could and that was the problem all along.
Your father, the man he was, tried to remind you that this was not War; that this was not the supposed God’s plan everyone was convinced of in your godforsaken hollow. And you tried to hear him, but for a while, you wished to be like everyone else in the town. You wished you could believe this was some greater plan. You wished you could believe that this was all because of some Horseman . . . but you knew better, and your father seemed to know this as well.
(And yet, when you thought back on it now, the stages in which the world ended still presented themselves as the Horsemen in your troubled mind.)
Because, well, you supposed that was truly when the world had ended—the day War came.
War will come, your mother had warned, and you knew that to be true the day the electricity stopped working. War had come, and he'd taken civilization with him. And while he reigned over the quarter of the world he'd been gifted, the rest of the world lay in the dark, trying to navigate throughout this new world.
From time to time you had heard talk of distant wars. You, however, had never seen one.
But War's ruthless hand still reached your town.
There was no news or contact with the outside world other than the people you could see with your own eyes. No transportation, no government, no nothing. It was said that cars had even been abandoned on highways as people tried to leave town to find their families. But they never got far; not with this newfound order bestowed upon the earth.
Because truly . . . War did not need to come to earth to corrupt it.
The government had fallen, the world had ended, the apocalypse had begun and that was all it took for chaos to ensue. People became their worst selves at the end of the world, you'd been told all your life through media upon media. But you had to disagree. You thought, perhaps, the end of the world brought out who people truly were deep inside. It allowed people to let go of civility.
And you discovered people really were perhaps even worse than this supposed War himself. Or rather a product of War and his righteous hand.
(Although, how righteous could he truly be?)
While War reigned, the rest of the world scavenged. Your family stood stagnant in your childhood home, holding up there for as long as you could. It was still warm when the second wave hit. You knew you'd need to find a different shelter when the time came.
The cold wasn't your only problem either. People were at their worst. When the news broke out in your town, the scriptures they held so dear began to fall apart. A lot left, some stayed, and others turned on each other, leaving houses with bloodstained splatters and a fear of thy neighbor. Your family stayed, however. Your mother read scriptures every day. Your father recited the truth. And they argued, while you sat by the window, terrified out of your mind as you watched the empty streets.
That was when you realized another truth about yourself. You were just about to turn twenty-two, the world had gone to shit, and you had never been so scared. Pestilence. War. Famine. Death. Their names raged on inside your head and it was as if you were still just a young girl, kneeling in church despite the scabs. Except now, you were a girl who could no longer kneel in church, and yet you were still so scared.
It felt cruel. Perhaps even unreal.
The scriptures had predicted this—the four harbingers coming down to scorn the earth. But you hadn't believed it. You were forced to now.
It was War’s reign back then. But Death would come one day. He had come to kill you all; to finish off everything his brothers hadn't touched, and one day he would.
It had been predicted. The words stuck in your head even now.
When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, a pale horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.
— Revelation 6:7–8
Your mother told you long ago of these scriptures. When you were a child, you'd cover your head with your blankets, hiding from the mysteries of the night. Somewhere in your innocent mind, you'd convinced yourself the devil himself would find his way into your room, wrap his bony hand around your ankle, and drag you to the pits of Hell.
Back then you'd feared death. You'd done everything to steer far from its clutches.
She’s afraid of the world, your peers would hiss under their breath, not knowing you'd heard every word. And you knew they were right. You knew you had always been a scared kid, trying your hardest to keep the monsters at bay.
You wished you'd realized there had been no real monsters . . . yet. You would've lived more. Now you knew the consequences.
Now there was no more living, just surviving.
Still, sometimes you found yourself missing it; missing life. It was a bitter thought—what could've been had the world not ended all those years ago.
Back then—before the end—you'd feared death.
How far will this go? you remembered thinking back then when it was still War’s reign. How long until things are normal?
You didn't have the stomach back then to come to terms with the truth. You barely remembered it now.
But you did remember the day everything truly changed for you.
Up until that day, you'd been following your father's orders, huddling up in your home with your mother and little sister as the four of you survived day by day. Then . . . your house had been broken into, the intruder coming in through your window.
Back then you had feared death. You had thought you were going to die.
You'd thought this up until the very last scream ripped through your throat just as your father emerged from the shadows, a look on his face you’d never seen, moments before everything went red. You remembered that to this day. While everything else was blurry, that moment was clear. You could still feel the blood splatter on your face as you watched your father—the man who used to tie your shoes for you before you hopped on the school bus—kill a man before your very eyes, ripping out his jugular with his bare teeth.
Once a girl who could no longer kneel in church, became one painted with the blood from another. And you remembered a small part of you—the part that had once knelt so much her knees had turned to scabs—that this was all War’s fault.
You thought it until you watched the man pale, falling to your childhood bedroom floor with a thud. You remembered how his eyes stayed wide open, locked on you as he gurgled and choked on his blood, bleeding out onto your pink carpet. He didn't blink. Not once. Not even at all. They stayed cold and empty as your father breathed heavily above him.
And then you looked at him.
Your father was a good man. He was kind and just, despite the town. He believed in science and facts. He wanted the truth. But none of that mattered if his family was at stake.
Your father was a good man. He loved you, and he would’ve done anything for you.
Your father was a good man.
Your father had ripped out another man’s jugular in front of you.
Your father was a good man.
Your father had killed someone.
This was the end. You knew it, and it knew you, too.
(It wasn’t talked about, and you never brought it up again. He simply embraced you in a tight hug and kissed your forehead, leaving a smudge of blood from the man in doing so, and whispered apologies that would never sink deeper than your skin.
(Now you wished you would’ve told him you understood. Now you would’ve looked at him and seen an image of yourself staring right back. Now you would’ve hugged him back.))
That was all it took before your father took it upon himself to gather your mother and little sister, put all necessities in the car, and collect enough portable gasoline as he could before the four of you set off down the road. Where you were going was undetermined. There was no knowing . . . because there was nowhere to go.
The world had ended. There was nothing left. You just had to go.
You have to grow up. No more kid stuff, your father said to you that night on the road while your mother and little sister were fast asleep in the back of the car. One day I might not be here to protect you. You have to learn to protect yourself.
And you'd promised him you would. Because you had to. You had been old enough then, after all. You had been twenty-one . . . technically an adult.
(Now, however, you realized you had still been too young. Twenty-one wasn't old enough to face the end of the world.)
But . . . what happens when a scared young girl is forced to grow up too soon? She turns into a machine.
Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.
Your father had borne that burden back then, when you first set off on the road. The car hadn't lasted long. Not that it mattered. The world was a wasteland anyway. Walking from town to town on the vacant streets and highways was nothing new now.
You just have to survive, he kept telling you. Survive long enough to keep them alive.
And you always knew what he meant. He was training you for the day when he would be no more. Because when that day came, you would be the one left in charge. He'd turned you into a machine because that was the world you lived in. You were the oldest. Your sister was barely five years old back then. And your mother . . . your mother who once believed this was all some greater plan, was now convinced that if she prayed hard enough it'd stop Famine from following after his ruthless brother.
It was your job to remember what your father had taught you when Pestilence first came to reign—how to hunt, how to shoot a shotgun, and now . . . how to survive.
And when Famine came; when you caught sight of the words Famine has risen spray painted on a billboard on the side of a highway, reminding you of your sick home. It was then you finally learned how to survive. You didn't realize how hard it would be until a year after Famine's birth, your father had passed because of you (because of a stupid decision that you had made which you still couldn't bring yourself to acknowledge).
Survival became all that you knew after that.
Your father was gone. It was just like he had warned. You were in charge now, and you had one purpose: keep your family alive.
The burden became yours to bear.
This was your purgatory and you'd do well to repent for what you'd done; for the man you'd sent out to die; for the father you'd lost.
Survive, survive, survive. It was all you knew.
And when the final Horseman rose, you knew what you had to do. It didn’t matter if it killed you, you couldn’t let your family die at the hands of one of those . . . creatures.
Death had risen. The entire world was a wasteland filled with undead and wars made by man.
If you crossed paths with one of those creatures and let them lay a finger on your family, your oath to your father would be broken. Death would kill you all.
So you kept going, trying to outrun the inevitable.
Because you had to. For him. For your father. For the ghosts that haunted you.
Your father had wielded you to become a machine. And a machine you would become.
Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat.
The routine was ingrained in your brain, going on and on like a mantra. You couldn't escape that. Not that it mattered. Survival mattered. Keeping your group, your sister, your mother, and your family alive mattered. They were all that mattered. You would skip as many meals as your body would let you if it meant they'd stay fed.
Sometimes you found yourself laughing at how naive you had been in the past. At twenty-five now, you were equal parts machine and woman, still oozing blood when wounded despite your protests. You didn't tremble at the sight of blood now. You didn't fear death.
When you were a kid, death was your greatest fear. Now, you envied it. Envied the fact you had to walk the earth; the same earth the dead destroyed. Because you couldn't die. That was the harsh truth: you couldn't die.
You'd feared death for so long and now as you sat awake, keeping watch while your group slept, you yearned for the clutches of death to drag you into nothingness. It was almost laughable.
In a world where people now fought for their lives, trying to outrun the dead, you wished to succumb to death. You knew it was wrong, and you'd never speak it aloud, but you yearned for it. This world was shit. Complete and utter shit, and you wanted to give up. Everything in you wanted to just wait like some brainless sitting duck and let Death or disease or even those wretched beasts you heard groaning in the dead of night have their way with your hollow body.
But you couldn't . . . not when you promised your father you'd protect them. He'd died for you, and it was your duty to keep your family safe. Your duty.
You couldn't die, not when you had to keep them alive.
So you let yourself turn into a machine.
And a ruthless machine you had watched yourself become.
That night had been enough evidence of this. Because that night as you sat on a log, slowly dragging yourself out of the past and into the present, you realized one thing. A bloody knife sat in your hand while you watched over your sleeping group, eyes searching for any sign of the dead, and that was when it dawned on you that you had been right all those years ago—the end of the world brought out who people truly were.
You were a machine. You didn't feel. You couldn't.
Glancing down at the bloody knife in your hand, you realized you hadn't felt anything that night.
That night you'd done something you never thought you would. That night your group was attacked by a man with a gun; a man who wanted to harm; a man who had put his hands on your little sister. She was only eight going on nine, and she was your responsibility, and as soon as his hand clamped down over her shoulder while he held a gun to her head, threatening to pull the trigger unless you gave up all your food, you lost it.
Everything went black. You couldn't see. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't even think. You just felt this pure blinding rage.
When you finally regained your sight, you realized what you'd done—you'd killed the man.
No, killed was too vague.
Like the true machine you had become, you had slaughtered him; the bloody knife in your hand was evidence enough of that.
The man was dead, a chunk of his jugular ripped out while he clutched the many stab wounds piercing his stomach. And you . . . you stood above him, eyes wide, bloody knife in hand, and the bitter taste of blood on your tongue.
You'd never killed anyone before. You'd put people out of their misery, but you'd never taken another life like this. You'd never had to.
But you had that night.
And now you paid the consequences.
It had been hours since then. No one had spoken a word since. And your sister . . . your little sister had only looked at you once since then, and you could see the utter terror her round eyes held. Normally she would sleep by your side, but she'd curled up next to your mother that night.
She was afraid of you, and you couldn't blame her. You had once given your father the same look.
So you sat alone on that damned log, bloody knife in hand as you thought back on how you managed to end up in this Hell. Sometimes you felt like a ghost, and now you knew why.
Your brows pinched together. You couldn't help but think: is this what your father had intended?
How much of a machine had he meant for you to become? Were you supposed to clutch onto the part of yourself that was still human? Or had becoming a monster been part of the deal when you'd signed off your soul for machine parts?
You weren't sure. You weren't really sure of anything anymore.
Your sister had looked at you like you were one of the monsters that plagued your earth, slowly destroying it region by region.
Were you no better than the dead to her?
You swallowed hard.
Had you become a monster?
“You did what you had to do,” you heard a deep voice from behind you, perhaps answering your thoughts.
But you didn't jump as you turned to see Felix sit down on the log beside you, exhaustion weaving through his delicate features. You didn't speak a word, just stared at the side of his face for a second before you glanced back down at the bloody knife in your hand.
You did what you had to do.
You nearly laughed. It was just like him to say such things.
You see: Lee Felix had joined your group around the same time Famine took his reign, and ever since then he'd been following you around like your own personal shadow. That was three years ago now. Your father had saved him, offering him to join your family on the road. Perhaps your father had seen something in him. Or maybe he had just saved him simply because that was just who your father was: a hero.
Not that it mattered. You'd taken a liking to Felix, too. He was kind.
Kind had been rare back then. It still was.
And Felix stayed kind.
When your father passed, Felix stuck by you. Your mother had begun to look at you as if you were a stranger, and your little sister still had been too young to understand much. Felix had made life easier.
You'd taught him everything you knew partly because you needed to and partly because you liked being around him as if he were the younger brother you’d never had. Little bird, you called him . . . because you'd taught him everything. You'd taught him how to survive. And sometimes you thought maybe you would've been friends outside of this. If things were different, if you'd met in a world where the apocalypse hadn't happened . . . then you'd like to think you could have met; that your paths would've crossed.
But things weren't different. You weren't even sure if you could let him in entirely. Your friendship would surely put him in some sort of jeopardy. Because, really, it all came down to survival, and you needed him to live. You didn't care what happened to yourself. You just needed to stay alive long enough to make sure they'd all make it.
That still didn't stop the feeling of relief that washed over you as soon as you felt him lean into you, arm touching yours. He was trying to comfort you in the way that he knew, and you couldn't help but lean against him further.
He was still just as kind as the day you'd crossed paths.
But you?
Well . . .
“I ripped his throat out . . . " you heard yourself roughly mutter before you felt the words tumble from your tongue. You lifted a hand to your blood-stained lips and swallowed. “I ripped . . . throat . . . his . . . with my teeth.” You swallowed once again, harder this time as your eyes drifted to your little sister's sleeping figure. She had been so scared. You had done that. You had scared her. “She looks at me like I’m a monster.”
”You’re not."
“Lix."
“You’re not,” he reiterated, his voice as harsh as he could manage (which was not harsh at all) while he clutched your blood-stained hand and took it into his. “You did what you had to do.”
Your eyes flicked down to your hands. But you didn't look at him. You couldn't. You just kept thinking and thinking and seeing that look on your sister's face. And then . . . then you felt yourself say. ”She says all life is precious. She cries when we have to put down a squirrel for Christ’s sake. I should’ve known. I should’ve—”
”She’s just a kid."
“I didn’t have to kill him,” you continued. “There was a point where I could’ve knocked him out. I thought about it. And I still killed him.” Your eyes finally snapped to his then. “I wanted to kill him, Lix.”
A muscle in Felix’s jaw twitched. ”It’s people like him that make me wonder if this world got it all right,” he admitted after a second. “I’m glad he’s dead. I just wish I could’ve been the one to do it.”
Your breath hitched at his words, not because they'd shocked you . . . but rather because you found yourself agreeing. But that wasn't . . . right. Felix was kind. You were not. He was good, and you . . .
”You don’t mean that,” you mumbled, squeezing his hand. “You’re not . . . “
”Not what?” Felix countered, eyes searching yours. “Hmm? Not what?”
You blinked, your throat constricting. ”Too far gone,” you choked out.
His brows twitched, his expression softening. ”Neither are you."
His hand touched your face a second later, his thumb wiping the dried blood from your chin. You weren't a monster in his eyes. You were just his friend. He didn't fear you, but you knew he should've.
But for a second, you let yourself forget this. Instead, you closed your eyes, allowing him to clean your face of the man's spilled blood. And when he was done, your eyes fluttered open just in time to see him try to reach for the knife in your hand, probably to release it from your tight hold.
However, you shifted it out of his grasp. His eyes snapped to yours then, questioning.
You offered a weak smile—something you didn't do often, but would for him. ”Sleep,” you hummed, patting his shoulder. “We need your brute strength in the morning.”
”We need your brain more,” he countered, tapping a finger to your forehead.
”Sleep, little bird."
He rolled those round brown eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."
Nevertheless, Felix listened to you. He shifted down onto the ground, resting his head on the log, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes closed. And you watched him until you were sure he was resting soundly. Then, your eyes went back to watching, making sure to keep your promise to your father.
But just as you were sure it was just you and the silence of the night again, you heard Felix’s voice filter through your ears, ”You’re not too far gone."
You swallowed hard but said nothing.
You're not too far gone.
Oh, how wrong he had been.
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As if like some sort of phantom, your knees had begun to itch like they used to after mass all those years ago. For the first few days, you tried to ignore it, writing it off as poison ivy or not bathing for a few weeks, but even when you’d scratch, the itch would remain. You came to realize that this wasn’t something you could write off; this wasn’t something that hadn’t been caused by anything other than . . . you.
A few nights ago, you’d killed a man. You’d ripped out his throat with his teeth, and for a second too long, you’d enjoyed it. Now . . . now you wondered just how deep your guilt ran. Now you wondered if given the chance, would you do it again?
But you already knew the answer.
Your knees had begun to itch once again . . .
And you tried to ignore it. Honest, you did, but his screams; how easy it was to bite into his flesh; the bitter taste of metallic blood on your tongue which oddly tasted too similar to honey; the life in his eyes quickly dissipating as you towered over him like a predator to its prey; all of it kept playing in your head over and over again. You couldn’t escape it, not even when night came and you were forced to close your eyes.
His face was always there.
Sometimes you wondered if any of it had actually happened. Sometimes you wondered if none of this was real or if you even were. Sometimes you wondered if this man had been Death; if the tales your town preached had been real and this was your test.
Sometimes you wondered if you had failed.
And you knew you had.
At night, you could hear your mother whispering prayers under her breath, pleading to the heavens that she and her daughter would be spared. And every time, you knew which daughter she meant. Every time you knew she was praying to be spared from you. Every time you knew it was you who she feared the most in this world. And every time you wondered if one day he’d finally answer her prayers.
You couldn’t even blame her, because a few nights ago you’d done the one thing you’d never thought you’d have to do—kill a man. You knew you were some kind of fucked for that alone.
Then, last night, you began to wonder if this was how your father had felt. You began to wonder if this was why he was dead and not you. You wondered if he’d done it to save you, and to put himself out of his own misery.
And then you began to pray, too. You’d stopped believing in God years ago, but it was an old habit that you sometimes indulged in for some sick kind of comfort. And this time, in the dead of night, you’d shut your eyes and beg for your father’s ghost to return to you. You begged for just one more minute. One more minute and he could tell you how to deal with this; how to survive this, too, just as he had taught you how to endure everything else.
But no ghost ever came, only the perpetual darkness galloped in, consuming you whole.
Your father was gone, and it was all your fault. Guilt was your ghost, not him.
He would still be here if you hadn't—
"Mom thinks you've been possessed by the devil," your little sister's voice brought you out of your mind.
You blinked once. Then, you glanced down at her, taking note of her skeptical eyes and furrowed brows. It was almost as if she were inspecting your face, trying to decipher if you, her older sister, really were possessed as your mother had claimed.
It had been the first time your sister had spoken to you in the past week. The four of you had been walking through the woods, steering clear of the main roads ever since you’d come into contact with that man—the man whose blood you could still taste on your tongue.
She’d taken to walking hand-in-hand with your mother, just a few feet behind you and Felix as the two of you led the way into the unknown. You didn’t know where you were going. You never did. That was the thing about the end of the world—the only thing that mattered was surviving day by day. There was no end-point.
But today while you led the group through the woods, eyes searching for any rodents or small animals to capture for food, your head stuck in the past, your sister had taken the chance to walk into step with you. And those . . . those had been her choice of words.
Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.
And now with the world a ghost of itself, you thought perhaps maybe your mother could be right. You’d changed. The world had changed you. The old taste of blood on your tongue was evidence enough of that.
You’d killed a man. You’d ripped out a chunk of his jugular with your teeth and plunged the very knife in your belt into his flesh over and over again until you were sure he couldn’t do more harm.
Kill or be killed, sure, but . . .
. . . You’d still killed a man.
You’d actually taken a life.
(You weren’t expecting it to haunt you this much. But it had. You could still see his face, hear his voice, smell him, feel him. He was still very much alive in your mind, haunting you like a ghost.
It didn’t matter if he was more monster than man . . . you had still killed him. You had still taken a life without a second thought. His evils didn’t matter . . . guilt still seeped in.)
Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.
And maybe you had been.
That would’ve been easier to fathom.
But instead of voicing these thoughts aloud, you adjusted your backpack on your shoulders, touched a finger to the knife tucked into your belt to make sure it was still there and tightened your grip on your father’s shotgun in your hand before you finally spoke.
"Mom's off her meds," was all you offered. It was all you could say. And it hadn’t been what your sister was searching for.
Your sister stepped back, allowing you to walk alone. You knew you were losing her. You knew she barely trusted you now just as your mother stopped considering you a daughter.
And you couldn’t blame them.
The end of the world brought out who people truly were, and you were someone not worth saving.
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The sun had begun to set when you finally declared you’d be stopping for the night. It wasn’t a solid resting place, which meant another night of no sleep on your part, but that didn’t bother you much anymore. All that mattered was there were no signs of the dead, no low groans in the distance, no immediate danger, and the small creek running just a few meters from your camp would provide just enough for you to wet your face and clean any dried blood from your skin. That was what mattered—a temporary sanctuary.
Felix had taken to accompanying your little sister to the creek, while your mother gathered small twigs and broken branches to add to the fire you had just started. But your eyes never stopped watching your little sister, keeping an eye on her to ensure no danger would reach her or Felix while you were occupied.
That was your only concern. Your second was food. There had to be some crawfish lingering in the creek that you could fry up. That was your second concern right after the fire was steady enough to last until nightfall.
With a soft sigh, you forced yourself to tear your eyes from your sister’s smiling face. You tried to ignore how she smiled at Felix while he splashed water at her. You tried to ignore the soft laughter you could still hear as you stabbed at the fire with a branch. You tried to ignore the thought that she’d never look at you like that; never laugh like that with you; never trust you like that again.
You tried to ignore how you had become more of a loose end your family needed to tie off, than a daughter or an older sister.
But you couldn’t. The thought was always there. There it would remain, you were sure of it.
Clenching your jaw, you added the branch in your hand to the fire, watching it crackle under the embers. And for a moment, you wondered what it would feel like if you were to reach forward and let the flames lick your fingertips.
Had he felt like this, too?
Had your father had these thoughts before he died for you?
Did he ever wonder if—
“You’re just like him, you know?” your mother nearly whispered, tearing you from your mind as she set down the pile of branches she had collected.
You glanced at her once, then glared into the fire. “Is that supposed to hurt me?”
She shook her head only once. “It should scare you,” she clarified, standing to her feet so she could tower over you once again. “God’s plan—”
“God’s plan?” you immediately spat out with a humorous scoff, now standing to your feet as well. You were taller than her now, unlike when you were a kid; unlike when you used to do everything she told you; unlike when she still considered you her daughter. “What does God’s plan have to do with my father?”
A muscle in her jaw twitched. “He has protected us this far. He couldn’t save your father. I’m worried if you continue down this path, he won’t be able to save you either,” she muttered back as she clutched the cross around her neck as if she thought it would ward you off like you had become one of the evils she’d warn you about when you were just a girl.
But you were no longer small; you were no longer moldable by her hand, and now, you were only made of anger. “You think God’s the reason we’re alive?” you questioned her, eyes narrowing into slits.
Your mother remained silent but clutched her cross harder. And you knew what that meant.
Your eyes flicked from her hand to her face. Then, you took a step forward, chin jutted out. “Is it God who kills so we can eat? Is it God who got us here, to this point? Is it God who holds dad’s gun?” you bit out as you touched a hand to your chest. “God doesn’t have a fucking plan.” You drilled a finger into your chest, your angry eyes never leaving hers. “I do. And God couldn’t save dad because it was supposed to be—”
But your words halted in your throat. You couldn’t admit it to her. You couldn’t tell her you were the reason behind your father’s death. It didn’t matter if she already knew. You just . . . you just couldn’t admit it to her face.
“God doesn't fucking exist,” you muttered out instead, turning away from her. “And if he did, he’s sure as hell dead now.”
“Your father filled your head with lies.”
You turned back to her, eyes glaring into hers. “Bullshit,” you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “He was the only one who ever told me the truth.”
Ignoring your words, she took a step away from you, her hand remaining on the cross around her neck. "Your father . . . I knew he was deeply flawed when I married him, but I just figured he’d change. I figured he’d see the way, instead he only got worse, but he knew when to control it. He knew right from wrong,” she went on, her voice steady, but her eyes had begun to water. And you knew tears would come, and when they did, you’d leave to kill the crawfish. "But, you, honey . . . I don't know where we went wrong with you. It's like you came out of the womb defective. You got all the bad traits of your father and nothing else. I look at you and I see this angry little girl. And, you know, sometimes I ask myself how in the world we managed to raise a daughter who is even more deeply flawed than her bastard father, but I never seem to know the answer."
There were the tears now.
But along with it came a knife in your chest that kept twisting and twisting the more she spoke.
Twist the knife, and she did.
"There's something wrong with you,” she whispered again after a moment’s silence, the tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “You frighten me.”
Twist the knife, and you refused to pull it out.
This was what you deserved.
Still, you didn’t cry, not for yourself. Never for yourself. Instead, you continued to stare at her with no emotion in your eyes as you muttered, “Talking ill of the dead is a sin, remember?” And then you began to turn.
But your mother’s hand landed firmly around your arm. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl,” she warned, her words sharper than the knife she’d twisted into your chest.
Swallowing hard, you sucked on your teeth. “What else do you want me to say?” you questioned, but didn’t bother to turn and face her. “I have nothing else to give you, mom.”
She released your arm as if you’d burned her and hissed, “Don’t call me that.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion for a mere second before you realized what she meant; before you realized what you’d said; what you’d done. It was an honest mistake, as well. You hadn’t called her that in so long, and yet it still came out. You hadn’t meant to say it, but it still came out as if you were still small and thought the whole world was in her arms.
“Then what do you want me to call you?” you asked, your voice quieter now as you took a step back. “If not mom, then what should your daughter call you? Hmm? Or is the answer nothing? Is that what we are to each other now? Will that make God come down from the heavens and give us salvation? . . . If you abandon me?”
Your mother remained silent.
And you knew her answer.
Sucking on your teeth, you nodded in acceptance. “What?” you spoke in a whisper as you took another step back. “Am I not being loud enough for him?” You outstretched your hands at your sides, gesturing to the heavens. “Should I scream it? Will he finally fucking answer then?”
“Stupid girl—” your mother quickly scolded, grabbing you firmly by the arm— “don’t you dare put this family in danger,”
But you only tilted your head in question. “Does that include me?”
Her eyes fluttered, taken back. “What?”
“This family,” you reiterated. “Am I a part of this family?”
Once again, she remained silent.
But you knew the truth.
“God’s plan as long as I’m out of the picture, right?” you muttered under your breath, swallowing hard once again. “At least we finally agree.”
Then, you were tearing your arm out of her grasp, but you didn’t move, you didn’t even look away from her. Instead, you kept still. You kept your eyes locked with hers as if breaking that eye contact would sever the final string holding the two of you together. She didn’t speak either, and she refused to move. She wouldn’t move first. You knew that. She’d always been that way. So had you . . .
And when you were sure the world had begun to rot around you, you could have sworn her bottom lip quivered as if she were on the verge of saying something . . . anything. Only, when her lips parted a mere sliver, a shrill scream sounded from behind, and the perpetual darkness of your world crept back in through your peripheral vision.
Beat. Your heart shot to your throat.
It happened too quickly for you to think.
Beat. Beat.
You heard the scream and you knew your sister was in trouble.
Beat.
Without a second thought, you dropped everything and ran toward the scream; toward the creek; toward your sister. It wasn’t far, but it was far enough for you to catch sight of two of the dead. One Felix fought off, while trying to grab his knife from his belt. The other had found its way to your sister, pinning her to the forest floor as she thrashed and screamed, her weak limbs desperately trying to keep the thing from sinking its teeth into her flesh.
And you knew what to do.
For a brief second longer, there was screaming. Then the squelch of a knife being plunged through a skull. Then nothing.
The world faded away. No noise. No people. No nothing.
One. Two. Three seconds, then the world started to return.
Breathing heavily, you watched carefully as your mother rushed past you, tearing the dead corpse off your sister and holding her closer . . . closer than she’d ever held you. Your nose twitched for a mere second as your gaze shifted from your mother and sister staring at you in shock ((?) no, maybe it was horror) to the stilled corpse, and finally to the bloodied knife gripped tightly in your hand.
You’d killed that thing, yes. But you hadn’t even thought about it. You hadn’t stopped to think that this thing was once a person. You hadn’t even seen it as such, unlike your mother; unlike what the town had tried to drill into your head during Pestilence’s reign. And . . . you could see that realization in your mother’s eyes.
. . . You were getting worse.
Your legs had begun to weaken at the thought, but you quickly stabled yourself, afraid they’d see it as another sign to put you down like the violent dog you knew they saw you to be. Instead, you tore your gaze from the knife in your hand and met your mother’s eyes once again (but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet your sister’s tearful stare). “Tell me, mo—” you quickly stopped the word from tumbling from your tongue, then went on— “is this still what God’s plan looks like to you?”
But your mother didn’t reply, and you didn’t wait for her to. You could barely stand to hold her gaze for a second longer. Instead, you wiped the blood from your knife on your pants, shoved it back into your belt, and turned, walking back to the fire you had begun to make minutes before.
And as you walked, you took note of the silence which followed you. You took note of how even Felix hesitated slightly before he followed after you. You took note of how your mother and sister sat near that creek for a few minutes longer and didn’t bother to wander after you as if you were no longer their blood.
The final string tying your family together had begun to wear thinner. You wondered when it would finally snap. You wondered how long it would take for a violent dog to succumb to its instincts; how long it would take you to become the lost cause you knew you were destined to be.
Would they make the decision to put you down then?
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Four days. Two sleepless nights. And one squirrel shared between the four of you. You felt a fever coming on a couple days ago. You saw the infected cuts from the fight with that man. You knew your body was weakening day by day.
If you didn’t stop soon, you’d sure become one of the dead.
But you tried your best to ignore it. You had to.
Your mother; however, remained hopeful (of course). You could hear her chattering on to your sister throughout the day while you watched the world.
According to her, no one really knew why the Horsemen came to earth. She claimed the world needed saving from certain people (what you were sure she was leaving out was the fact that she was convinced you were one of these people). So, she went on and on and on, and you quietly listened, too, because you were still a girl who used to kneel in church, after all; because you could still feel the bruises on your knees; because you could still see the scars left behind from the scabs.
So, you listened, but you did not believe.
The world was fucked and needed cleansing. People were inherently bad and God saw no other way for salvation (apparently) than to send his four loyal Horsemen to destroy Earth and its people. . . . Well . . . supposedly. You knew the truth; however. There were no Horsemen. There was just death. Something had gone wrong and no one really knew what, so they blamed it on some higher power.
Whatever.
(Supposedly) Pestilence had been a shadow. War had wanted an audience. The world fell before you could get a proper grasp on Famine. And now Death was here. He’d been walking the earth for two years now, and still no one knew why.
Just like the town, your mother had her theories. And while she believed this God was still on your side, still searching for the good in humanity, you thought him fucked up. The human race was just his playthings.
He’d made sure there was nothing left.
Hell, you knew there wasn’t even a god. The world was just fucked. The end.
Point blank: it didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore.
Survival was all that mattered.
Everything else was fucked.
And as you continued to lead the way into nothingness, listening to your mother’s ramblings about the Bible, all you could do was ignore how your knees had begun to itch once again, while you focused on one thought: survive, survive, survive. But . . . not for yourself . . . for them.
Survive long enough for them.
For your father.
For your sister.
For your mother.
For Felix.
For them.
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By sundown, Felix managed to find an abandoned warehouse for the night. It wasn’t much, but it was better than sleeping out in the wild. Perhaps all of you could get some shuteye that night. Sure, luckily it was around Fall or maybe just before where it was still warm, but sleeping on logs wasn’t ideal. (Not that you could be picky. Not that you were.)
But, just your luck, sleep never found you.
Beside you, Felix softly snored, laying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest and his head resting in your lap. Your hand found its way to his dark waves, gently scratching his scalp as he slept. It brought you peace where you normally had none.
Sometimes you wondered when Felix would finally realize the monster you’d become. You wondered what it would take. How many more people would you kill for them in order for him to look at you as if you were a stranger?
You didn’t want to see that day come.
It’d already come for your mother the day your father died. Then for your sister when you’d butchered that man. You couldn’t bear living through Felix’s realization.
With a sigh, you glanced over your shoulder, eyes landing on your mother’s sleeping figure as your little sister curled up into her side, miles away in her dreams. You hoped it was better there; that her dreams were still pure and innocent despite the world.
You tore your eyes from them a second later, instead opting to glance out the large opening in the warehouse where a window used to be. The world was so bleak now. Even the sight of the empty lands before your eyes stirred nothing within you. It was just so . . . distant.
Nothing was left.
Truly.
Reluctantly, you shut your eyes, trying your hardest to drift off into sleep, but the pounding in your head and the scratch in your throat kept you up. You were getting worse. You squeezed your eyes tighter, hoping this fever would subside soon. The world was darker now, the nothingness intensifying. You weren’t even sure if you could sleep anymore. Had you been? You couldn’t remember.
But just when you were sure sleep wouldn’t greet you that night, forcing you to keep watch, you could’ve sworn you heard an inhuman howl echo throughout the darkness beyond.
Your eyes snapped open, heart hammering.
No.
It couldn’t be.
Another howl echoed throughout the air. But this was no howl from a wolf or even a beast.
You’d heard stories from survivors in the towns you’d passed through in the two years Death had taken his reign over your lands. You’d heard the stories of Death and his steed. His steed, pale in color similar to a corpse, was rumored to have this cry.
The cry was no ordinary cry. Death’s steed cried similar to a wolf or rather a beast, hungry for blood. It was a war cry—a warning sign.
Of course, Death was not real and there was no horse with their cry. No, you knew what this was. You’d heard these cries in smaller amounts. You’d heard these cries as you plunged your knife into each undead’s brain, killing the parasite living within. And a howl like this only meant one thing—a hoard.
You swallowed hard.
Death was near.
You’d thought the undead didn’t hoard unless . . .
The man.
Your eyes widened.
The night the man had attacked your group, you had managed to hotwire a car. That had been your plan. You were going to use that car to get your group farther and safer. But because of that man . . . because of what you’d done to him, you’d accidentally popped one of the tires in the process, forcing your group to stay the night in those woods when you should’ve been on the road.
And his screams . . .
You’d slowed down and made yourself known, and now they were following the noise.
And . . . it was all your fault.
You exhaled a shaky breath.
Death was coming.
Immediately, you swung into action, quietly waking Felix up. His eyes questioned yours before he, too, heard the war cry.
Death was coming. Felix knew this now, too.
The two of you silently awoke your mother and sister, Felix informing them of the matter they had on your hands, while you gathered your father’s shotgun, crouching near the window for a better look. If they were near . . . how near?
You swallowed hard.
Maybe you could still run. You could still get everyone out if you ran. It could work—
But then you saw it.
In the distance, you caught sight of the undead as they cried, following each other.
You checked the gun’s chamber, removing and reloading the cartridges just to make sure they were in place in case you were forced to fire. Your grip tightened and loosened, and you could hear Felix whispering your name, but your eyes were transfixed on the hoard up ahead.
Death was here. So close. Too close.
They couldn’t see you now, couldn’t hear you, but . . . if you ran, they’d catch sight of you. They’d kill your family. They’d kill Felix. They’d kill you all.
There was no way you could outrun the hoard. Not when they were this close; not when they could smell you; hear your every breath.
Fuck.
You wanted to scream.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Your father had trusted you. They all had. And now you were going to let another person down all because you’d been stupid one night. You’d fucked all of you.
“Snap out of it,” Felix whispered, his hand on your shoulder. “Ideas?”
You could only shake your head.
Felix swore, running his hands through his hair. "There's no way," he nearly gasped at his words. "Fuck."
You swore you felt your heart drop as you slumped against the wall. They were going to die. Because of you.
There was no way out; no way any of you would make it past the hoard without them noticing. The moment they saw any of you, they’d follow you until they could get their teeth into your flesh. And while you had no care for your own life, you still had care for theirs—the people you'd sworn to protect.
Your father had died for all of you. He knew it wasn't safe, and he still went out. He'd traded his life for yours. He'd made you swear to protect your mother and your little sister, and along the way, you'd sworn to not only keep them safe but to keep Felix from harm. You'd sworn that, and you were not one to fall back on your word.
There was no way out together. But . . . there was one way out.
You knew what that meant.
This was what your father would've wanted. This was what he would've done; what he had done.
It was always going to turn out this way. You'd known that.
And in that moment, you accepted that. After all, you'd always been told you were your father's daughter.
This was how you made things right.
You nodded at your thoughts.
Then, you felt your eyes burn, your brows scrunching in confusion. Wetness slipped down your cheek and you briefly touched a finger to the tear, finding you were crying. You hadn’t cried in so long.
Angrily, you wiped the tears away. You didn’t get to cry.
This had been your fault in the first place. This was how you made it right. You didn’t get to cry. You didn’t.
So you sent one last glare at the hoard up ahead, then turned to Felix. Fuck. He would be the one in charge now. You trusted him, yes, but you knew how heavy that burden was. That was what you would regret the most—putting Felix through this agony, too.
Still: "Little bird," you whispered.
Fearful tears were already in his eyes. "I wish you'd stop calling me that."
"Can't help it. I taught you how to fly," you hummed, voice soft and unlike you.
You both knew what you meant. You'd taught Felix how to fire a gun, taught him how to gut a fish, you taught him how to survive—you taught him how to fly. But he didn't need any more teachings. Like a baby bird, he'd flown from the nest ages ago. He could fly without you. The thought brought a melancholic smile to your chapped lips as you fought back the burning in your eyes when they met his worried gaze once again.
"Makes me feel important." You touched a hand to his cheek. He felt soft under your calloused skin. "But . . . you don't need me anymore."
Felix exhaled with a strained choke, his eyes widening in realization. "No," he rushed out, shaking his head as his soft brown eyes searched yours. "No." His hand enclosed around the one you'd touched to his cheek. "Don't. Don't."
You knew what he meant. Don't be the hero.
But that wasn't his decision to make. You had debts to pay; people to protect.
Living had never been something you wanted in a world like this. Sometimes you felt like a ghost; when the world was quiet and your heart beat a little slower—you felt like one of the many corpses you'd passed by on the daily.
Years ago, you promised your father you'd take over his job and protect. You'd never wanted to live, but you had forced yourself. Back then, you made a promise to yourself—you had to stay alive, not for yourself, but for them; you had to stay alive for the one you had lost. And you'd upheld that promise, but now . . . in order to save them, you had to break it.
You knew this.
Felix did, too.
He rested his forehead against yours. "Please. Don't. It's supposed to be you and me."
Your eyes squeezed shut. "I'm the reason he's dead."
The two of you knew what you meant. This was how you repaid him; how you repaid your father.
"Then let me do it," Felix muttered, hand dropping from yours to grasp the shotgun in your other hand.
You were quick to rip it from his hold. "It was always going to turn out this way," was all you said, and he knew what you meant.
The sound of the cries coming closer made you spring back from him. Your head swiveled, taking in your surroundings as your hands found their rightful place on the shotgun. Your eyes briefly found your little sister's—her round eyes wide with fright, only furthering your decision. You knew doing this for them, for her.
"Fine," you heard Felix hiss in a quiet whisper. "But I'm coming with you."
Your head snapped to him. "Like hell you are."
"You don't get to die."
"Neither do you."
"Then I guess we have a predicament."
Your eyes softened. "Lix."
His brows pinched together. "You don't get to die."
And you almost felt yourself smile. "Little birds are meant to fly," you hummed. Little birds are meant to fly; they aren't meant to die.
He shook his head.
You swallowed hard.
The cries grew closer, and your heart raced. You were out of time. This was your last goodbye.
You gripped his hand. "Protect them."
He latched onto your shoulders. “No. No. I’m not ready. Don’t make me say goodbye to you.”
Against your will, your bottom lip trembled. “It’s not.”
But it was. You both knew that.
Felix could only shake his head. “Please.”
“See you later, little bird,” you hummed, weakly, kissing his forehead before you tore yourself from him. And he reached for you, begging you to stay.
But . . . no amount of pleas could change your mind. You were already moving before Felix could stop you. You didn’t have the heart to glance back at your sister or your mother. You never wanted to live in a world like this, but if you looked back, you feared you might’ve found salvation in their eyes. You couldn’t put them through that. You’d put them through enough.
You worked quickly. You had to. For them.
The quiet cries of the hoard approached, moving slowly. You kept your eyes on their figures, stealthily stepping down the creaky stairs to the bottom floor. From there, you moved to the woods surrounding the area. You quickly crouched down in the dark forest, clutching the shotgun even tighter. This was your father’s, now it was yours, and you were going to use it to save your family.
You weren’t naive enough to think that you could actually kill all of them. But that didn’t matter. You were solely supposed to be a distraction. You would fire that damned shotgun at those things over and over again, not caring if it even did any damage. You just needed to keep their attention long enough to get them to follow you in the opposite direction. That would allow your family to escape. That was all you intended to do.
You knew there was no surviving this. And you were fine with that.
Death didn’t scare you. Not yours, anyway.
So you hunkered down, hands clutched on the shotgun as you waited for the hoard to get near enough to strike.
You heard them before you saw them. The cries echoed throughout the dark night, making your heart pound faster. It became louder and louder, so loud you felt yourself start to tense, and then the first came into view.
It came to a gentle halt, almost as if it had been expecting you. But that couldn’t be. It hadn’t seen you. You were still in the clear.
Still, you watched, remembering the lessons on hunting that your father had taught you. This was how you hunted—quiet, hidden, and alert.
The creature tilted its head back, eyes closed as the moonlight cascaded across its pale face. Your brows scrunched in confusion as you watched it, tilting your head to the side. It was almost as if it were basking in the moonlight, soaking up the feeling of the satellite shining down on it. And then you realized what it was doing: sniffing you out.
Behind it, the world was bleak as the rest of those damned creatures sauntered forward. The trees seemed to sag, the grass stale, and it was quiet, so very quiet. Every step they took, decay followed.
And then they began to move . . . toward the warehouse where your family still resided.
Your jaw ticked as you raised the shotgun. Your father’s instructions rang through your ears and you lined up the barrel, aiming at one of the creature’s chests as it was perhaps the only part of it you had direct access to. You were certain the impact wouldn’t kill it, you were almost certain it wouldn’t even hurt it, but . . . it would distract it, and that was all you needed.
Last week, you killed a man. You ripped out his jugular with your teeth. You’d slaughtered him. So this, killing this entity shouldn’t have made your stomach churn, but it did.
Your world was gone. Death remained. And it was all his doing.
Still . . . still, your finger hesitated on the trigger.
You would die tonight . . . by its hand, no doubt. And perhaps that scared you. Perhaps a part of you truly didn’t want to die. But you dumbed down this hesitation to just pure fear.
Fear that those things would find your family after disposing of your body; fear they’d kill them; fear all of this would be for nothing.
You swallowed hard and adjusted your grip on the gun. You had to try. Your life for theirs. It was that or you all died tonight, and you wouldn’t have that, not after all you had done; all you had put them through.
All you had to do was pull the trigger. And yet . . . you still hesitated.
Fuck. You closed your eyes, clenching your jaw as your heart hammered in your chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
And as your eyes remained closed, you heard their voices then.
You're not too far gone.
Mom thinks you’ve been possessed by the devil.
There’s something wrong with you. You frighten me.
You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.
Your breath hitched. You have to grow up. And you had. Too quickly you now realized. It was always going to end up this way.
This was the only way to save them. The only way.
Your eyes snapped open, catching sight of the creatures still sniffing the air like they could just smell your terror. You sucked in a breath, then pulled the trigger. Exhale.
The ringing in your ears was almost immediate and the explosive sound echoed throughout the silent night. You barely even noticed the shotgun’s kickback, too focused on the creatures before you, watching with wide eyes as the pellets hit one of the things, knocking it entirely to the ground.
The others cried out, their noses no longer needing to be depended on as their eyes searched for the origin of the noise. And then you caught the eye of one, and you knew it was the end.
You faltered at the sight, stumbling backward as you tripped on a root, causing your body to hit the ground. A low groan escaped you before you could stop yourself.
Fuck.
Had that been too loud?
Heart pounding in your chest, you slowly glanced up, eyes landing on the creatures. More eyes stared back at you, hungry with . . . something as a few had begun to make their way toward you.
You swallowed hard.
Death itself had seen you.
Acting fast, you hastily grabbed the shotgun. You weren’t sure how long you could keep this up, but you needed to buy your family more time. You needed to end this.
And end it you would.
You clutched the shotgun tightly in your hand and sat up, groaning slightly when you felt a sharp pain in your ankle. But still, you went on.
Remembering your father’s teachings, you knew what a machine was good for at the end of its reign: making a lot of fucking noise.
And so with a heavy heart and angry tears pricking your eyes . . . you belted out a loud yell.
There was no hiding now. They had all heard you. And that was all that mattered to them.
“Come on, you fuckers!” you took it a step further as you yelled at them, clanking the butt of your gun on a tree to make as much noise as you could. And then, when you heard their cries echo with yours; when you saw one turn to two turn to ten following you into the woods, you knew it was time.
With a fleeting look at the warehouse where your family still resided, you fought back the urge to crawl into yourself and let that anger you’d been holding inside yourself for years now finally just . . . snap. You didn’t know if you fired the shotgun at one of the creature’s heads first or ran off further into the woods, still screaming. You didn’t know the present from the past, but you did know you couldn’t look back.
And so, you let yourself be loud, screaming for yourself, for the people you’d lost, for the people you’d never see again, for your father. You yelled and yelled, racing through the woods as they all quickly followed after you, releasing cries of their own.
The world fell behind you in those moments, time moving in slow motion as you weaved through the dark woods, your feet bounding off the ground as if you were in zero gravity. Sound evaded your senses, only the muffled noises of your rapid breathing could be heard echoing in your ears.
But you just kept running, letting the world escape you. Even when you’d trip over hidden roots, your knees buckling as you fell to the ground, surely bruising and cutting up your skin, you persisted each time. Like your father’s daughter, you pulled yourself to your feet each time, sparing a glance over your shoulder only to be met with the sight of the hoard getting nearer and nearer. And every time, you’d force yourself to swallow the bile crawling up your throat before you cocked your shotgun and fired into the hoard, taking off screaming for them to follow after you.
This was the end, and you planned to gather as much of them away from the warehouse and closer to you. You knew it would hurt, but you didn’t care. Their teeth ripping into your flesh would never be a match for the sins you’d committed in this lifetime. That was why you met every dead that got in your path with a lethal hit from the butt of your shotgun and a silent prayer that your damned soul could be traded for the safety of your family.
You were sure you would have continued running had your foot not slammed into a divot in the ground, twisting your ankle with such force that you hit the ground instantly, crying out in pain. And this time when you tried to stand to your feet, you realized the pain was too much to stand.
It hit you then.
Beat.
This really was the end.
You couldn’t run.
Beat.
The hoard was gaining on you.
This was the end.
Beat.
Swallowing hard, you clenched your jaw, shutting your eyes as you realized what you needed to do. Clutching your father’s shotgun close to your chest, so close it nearly touched your heart, your lips parted, and a scream bubbled up your throat, ripping through your vocal cords as it echoed throughout the dead of night.
But before you could inhale and breathe out another war cry of your own to match theirs, a hand slapped over your mouth, muffling your screams. Another hand was gripping your arm the next second, pulling you off the ground and shoving your back against the nearest tree.
Your eyes shot open, dropping your shotgun as your hands instinctively clasped around the wrist of the hand covering your mouth. Deep dark eyes stared back at you, a sense of urgency in them as you realized what was going on.
It happened so fast, too fast for you to process. But you quickly realized the eyes belonged to a man not much older than you. Dark eyes. Full lips. Sculpted nose. It was your first time seeing a man other than Felix . . . other than the one you’d gutted . . . in a long time.
What was he doing?
But you couldn’t ponder long as his eyes twisted to the scene behind you, and you could’ve sworn you felt his heart beat faster against your lips where his hand still lay. And at that sight, he kicked into action.
“You listen to me. We have a few seconds before those fuckers are at our throats,” he spoke in a hushed tone, his voice deep and controlled, but you could sense the fear on him. It was different from yours. “When I tell you, you run as fast as you fucking can in that direction and you don’t stop. You follow me and you don’t get lost or you’re dead.” His hand fell from your mouth as he began hastily digging through the pack over his shoulder. “Got it?”
You skipped a beat, not answering.
His eyes were on you instantly, expectantly.
But you only blinked.
You didn’t want to be saved.
No, he couldn’t do this. It was your time. This was your punishment. He couldn’t—
Your thoughts were cut short as he pulled something out of his pack, and you quickly realized a grenade now sat in his hand. Your eyes widened. He was going to—
“Run,” he bit out, an order.
And it all happened so fast.
You stayed put.
He turned from you, quickly pulling the pin and chucking the grenade as fast and hard as he could from your location. You watched the weapon soar, your heartbeat stilling in your throat as the seconds of anticipation crept upon you.
Beat.
Beat.
Be—
A loud explosion sounded in the distance, the ground shaking beneath your feet as ringing in your ears commenced. Only then did you realize your feet had been moving on their own, carrying you farther and farther away from the scene as you caught a glimpse of the hoard following after the explosion. But you wouldn’t do this. You had accepted your death. You wouldn’t—
Your feet weren’t moving of your own volition. The world had fallen away from you, you realized, but as you turned your head away from the hoard you realized it was the man who was dragging you away from the scene. You realized in your daze, that he must have locked his grip onto your arm and took off running, dragging you along with him despite your injured ankle and dormant mind.
And for some reason, despite the urge to fall to the ground and let yourself fade away, you allowed him to drag you further and further into the woods. You didn’t realize just how much land you had covered until the sound of the hoard was so far, that he’d begun to slow down ever so slightly. You didn’t realize until the woods turned into sparse grassland, until the sight of what appeared to be a latched roof to an underground bunker of some sort. You’d heard of shelters like these, but you’d never seen one. You always just assumed the military had covered it all up, leaving people to die while they sat safely under the barren earth.
Your mind raced with a million thoughts, but you could barely see straight let alone think right as you allowed this man to drag you to the entrance. Hell, you allowed him to shove you inside, as you crawled down the ladder in the tunnel. It was a subconscious action, honest. Otherwise, you would’ve begged him to leave you outside to die. But there was no breath for begging as he followed in after you, shutting the hatch and twisting it closed to ensure it was tightly locked.
And when your feet finally met the metal flooring of the inside, you stepped back in shock.
As you had predicted, this was a government bunker. A rather large one at that. You swallowed hard. Fuck.
And when you turned around, your eyes searching the area, you were met with the scene of a group of survivors staring back at you in confusion. People. And they were alive. You hadn’t seen so many people since before Famine.
What the fuck?
But before you could react, something hard cracked over the back of your head, throbbing pain followed. The darkness seeped in instantly, your mind losing control of your body as you smacked the ground, eyes fluttering as you faded in and out of consciousness.
There it was, you realized.
Your punishment.
You were going to die.
And you couldn’t help but allow yourself one last selfish look because maybe there was still a small part of you that wanted to be alive. But that part could only live if things were normal again, if things were the way they had been before the world died. Still, that part of you took over and you watched silently, your vision fading in and out as you caught a glimpse of those dark eyes that had saved you, just moments before the world faded into darkness.
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The next time your eyes fluttered open, a metal ceiling stared back at you.
There was a throbbing in your head, searing through your thoughts, and your shotgun was nowhere to be found. You released a soft groan, trying to shift in your spot, but you were met with resistance. You tugged and tugged, but your body didn’t budge.
In confusion, you glanced around, finding yourself on a medical bed, your hands tied together with rope, attaching you to the bed. This didn’t make sense. You hadn’t seen a bed in months maybe a year now. This didn’t make sense. Where were you? How did you—
And then . . . then the memories all faded in.
The warehouse. The man. The shots. The hoard.
This was Death’s doing.
The town had warned you of this and you’d denied it. You still didn’t believe. You couldn’t. God was dead and the Horsemen were just a figment of fearmongering. But for a second, you wanted to believe. For that second you were strapped to that bed, you wanted to believe that this was your purgatory and Death was punishing you. That would be easier: if you believed.
Death was an entity; one you had no idea about. There was no knowing what exactly he could and couldn’t do. And this . . . being bound to a medical bed with not even a soul to be heard felt utterly ordinary if he did exist, considering what you did know about this dark being.
But . . . why were you still alive?
Slowly, you lifted your head, groaning at the pain that followed as you assessed the rest of your body. You were alive. Cuts and bruises everywhere, but you could still inhale, exhale, breathe. You could still hear the beat of your heart if you closed your eyes and focused. You were alive.
You were alive.
Your jaw twitched. “I’m alive,” you whispered to yourself, a bitter taste left on your tongue. “I”m . . . alive.”
And for a second, you truly allowed yourself to believe Death existed. You allowed yourself that he had done this to you; that the two years he’d reigned all led up to this very moment. You allowed yourself to believe that he had kept you alive because suffering was for the living.
Was this his way of being kind? Sparing you?
Swallowing hard, you glared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. If you prayed, would he give in? Would he end this suffering? Would he finally give you your punishment?
Your mind wasn’t allowed much longer to ponder as the sound of a door opening brought you out of your repenting. Wearily, you watched with stern eyes as a man stepped in, carrying a bowl in one hand and a washcloth in the other. You watched as he let himself in, still not looking up while he closed the door behind him with a heavy sigh and finally . . . glanced up, meeting your gaze.
Him.
The man.
Slowly, your face softened as confusion consumed you. Him. He had done this to you. He had been the one to lead you here. (He’d also been the one to save you . . . ) He had knocked you out cold. And now . . . now here he was.
You clenched your jaw hard.
The man just stared a minute longer at you, his gaze stern, cold, calculating. Then, he was walking toward you, resting the bowl on the bedside table beside your head before he reached forward and tapped a finger to your chin, tilting your head so he could analyze the wounds on your face.
And you let him, analyzing his actions, preparing for his next.
“You’re awake,” was all he simply said as he dropped your chin and diverted his attention to the bowl on the bedside table. “Sorry about the blow and the rope . . . it’s . . . protocol.”
But you remained silent, watching.
"Your stunt back there . . . could’ve cost us this entire place," he muttered, his voice calm and controlled but you knew he was seething inside. He remained quiet as he dipped the washcloth into the bowl of what seemed to be warm water before he turned to you once again, his eyes lethal. "Screaming only attracts more of them, don’t you know? If you wanted to die, you should’ve just stayed put.”
You swallowed thickly.
There was something terrifying about a quiet rage.
"There's always someone like you," he continued, his eyes racking up and down your body in a menacing glare before the warm touch of a washcloth to your cheek startled a quiet gasp out of your lips. "Someone who ends up surviving longer than they should have." A scoff left him. "Someone who doesn’t care who dies for them as long as they get out unscathed. Did you even think there might be other survivors around before you took off attracting all of those things? If there were children? Families? People who survive together and want to stay alive without running into someone like you?”
And you hadn’t.
You never thought yourself to be stupid or any of the sort. You hadn’t been thinking. There hadn’t been enough time. You just needed to do something so your family could make it out alive. You hadn’t thought that there could be others. You hadn’t thought that saving your family could damn another.
Had your mother been right about you?
Were you really just a stupid girl? A stupid girl playing hero?
The man pulled a chair from the corner of the room, and placed it beside your bed, sitting on it as he dragged the washcloth down your arms now. His touch was somehow gentle despite his glare. Perhaps it was because no one had touched you so gently in so long. Perhaps it was because you had given up, but you let him clean the wounds on your body as you rested your head back onto the pillow, your muscles relaxing ever-so-slightly.
"No?" he questioned, reiterating his accusation. “In my experience, people like you don’t find themselves in trouble like that unless they’re planning something.”
You remained expressionless as you watched him, taking in his words. He thought you’d lured the dead here, and for what? Looting? Or just plain insanity?
Had you really become that corrupt even a stranger could sense it on you?
Slowly, you blinked, wondering if your father had ever felt this way before his death. And as you wondered, the man beside you continued cleaning your wounds, but this time, remained silent. Maybe he realized you wouldn’t answer. Or maybe he already knew the truth about you and your damned soul.
And as the minutes of silence ticked on, you did your own inspection.
Now, under the light, the man sat beside you, his eyes fixed on meticulously cleaning each wound with care despite his lethal words. It had been so long since you’d seen another man like this; a man that had to be around your age; a man so young yet so riddled with age. His dark hair was slightly curly, more tangled and messy than anything as if he hadn’t slept in days. The dark circles under his equally dark eyes were enough to show his evident sleep deprivation. And yet, he seemed almost too alert: his full lips were hidden as his teeth worried his bottom lip while he continued to clean the blood from your skin.
(You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t beautiful; so beautiful it almost made you believe in God once more.)
And for a second, you let yourself wonder what else your mother had been right about. You let yourself believe once again. You let yourself be a girl who could finally kneel in church without bruises being left behind. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she and the town had been right; that this whole thing was God’s plan; that the Horsemen had come; that they could be saved, but you would be condemned.
Then . . . you began to wonder if you had already been. Maybe it was the blow to the head you’d taken or the fever raging through your body or maybe it was the truth, but you began to believe that perhaps this was your purgatory; perhaps you had died in that hoard and you’d been sent here; perhaps the beautiful man beside you was Death himself.
Was this it then? Were you always meant to see him at the end?
Oddly enough, he reminded you of this small dog your sister had found near one of the abandoned houses your family had stayed in over the years. This was during Famine’s rule—when food became sparse, when lands became stale and yellowed; when the dead had only just begun to migrate south. This tiny dog found your younger sister then, and she’d brought it home, leaving you no choice but to care for the little thing.
Your sister had named her Berry. (A few months later you had to put her down; it was what we had to do to survive, you’d told your sister back then. You were sure it was then she first started to hate you.)
And as you stared at Death, taking note of how his eyes were a particular shade of brown, you realized they were the same shade that the silly dog had.
You tilted your head. Death somehow had eyes that were kind; eyes that were warm; eyes that reminded you of Felix. Was that how they planned to transfix you? Was Death meant to be this beautiful; this familiar so you’d go willingly? Had God forgotten you’d already condemned yourself? Had he forgotten you didn’t need to be tricked? Had he forgotten where your prayers resided?
Only a moment later, when you felt his hands running over your torso, did you snap out of your exhaust-ridden daze. You realized quickly he was cleaning the last of your wounds which resided on your ribs. And when he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the bowl without another care before he slowly leaned back, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you with scrutinizing eyes.
Death narrowed his gaze, but it wasn’t menacing this time. Rather, he seemed almost perplexed. "Why aren’t you fighting?" he questioned. "You didn’t stop to run before. Why calm your fire now?"
Why aren’t you fighting?
The thing was: it was over. Your fight was over.
Sure, you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Death was painfully beautiful . . . but it went beyond that.
It was surely daylight by now.
Daylight had come, hours had passed, and Death had you in his hold.
By now, Felix had probably taken your mother and sister onto the road again. They’d escaped, and they were miles and miles away from you and Death. They were safe.
So . . . where was your fight?
You didn’t have one anymore. This was the end. Death would either kill you or make you suffer again and again and again, and your family would live. You’d once told yourself that you never wanted to live in a world like this, but you’d kept yourself alive to protect your family. Only now . . . you didn’t need to fight because there wasn’t anyone left for you to protect.
Your fight was over. Maybe you could rest now. Maybe he’d let you.
Death seemed to catch onto the shift in your demeanor as he narrowed his eyes. "Do you not speak?"
For a moment, you considered not replying. Until: "There's no point," you heard yourself say, voice dry and hoarse.
The look on Death’s face was unreadable as his eyes shifted across your face, his mouth slightly parted. "You smell of death," he muttered, gaze still searching your being.
And you almost laughed.
Because this was your end, and Death himself just told you that you smelled like shit or well . . . like him, you supposed . . . apparently.
It all felt a little unreal.
Death must not have liked your silence as he shot you one last glance before he pulled away and walked toward a table on the other side of the room. As he walked, you caught sight of the blood painting his body, his skin, him.
You swallowed hard. You’d brought that hoard to him. He’d fought his way out. You’d caused those wounds, and now he was more than likely going to do worse to you. He’d probably take that scythe you were told he carried and cut your head clean off.
But unlike what you thought, Death sifted through the miscellaneous items on the table before pausing and grabbing a small knife. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you watched him approach you, knife in hand.
There it was.
This was the end you were promised.
Was he going to slit your throat and leave you to bleed out? Or cut you open so you could see just how dark your heart had become? You wouldn’t put it past him. Hell, you might have even welcomed it. But as he approached you, your eyes closing in anticipation, he did not bring that knife down upon your body. No, instead, with a few quick motions and the sound of the rope being cut, you slowly opened your eyes just as your hands were released from the rope’s grip.
On instinct, you brought your hands close to your chest, rubbing your raw wrists. You couldn’t even speak, you just watched as he kept the knife in his hand but returned back to his position of leaning back against the chair with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on you.
"You're human," you found yourself uttering as you watched him watch you.
His brows twitched in confusion. "Of course I am.”
But Death couldn’t bleed. . . . Could he?
"You bleed,” you spoke your thoughts, dumbly.
His eyes met yours, but only briefly. "Am I not meant to?" he bit out before his gaze fell back on your hand rubbing your wrist. "Even the dead bleed."
Your confusion only spiraled. This was your end; your purgatory. This was Death, was he not? Your mother had been right. She had to have been right otherwise you were still alive; otherwise, you had managed to escape death once again without so much as a punishment. That wouldn’t be fair. That wouldn’t be right. That wouldn’t be just.
This had to be Death. You had to be dead or somewhere in between. It didn’t matter, this just had to be your end.
So, why hadn’t he condemned you yet?
Why—
"Why—” Death interrupted your thoughts, once you finally dropped your hand from your wrist— “did you think I couldn’t bleed?"
You glanced his way, finding his eyes already on you.
His stare only unnerved you more.
Why couldn’t he just kill you? You deserved it.
Your brows furrowed. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to play with your food?" you found yourself spitting out, finally finding your voice despite his devasting beauty capturing your words. "I put your lives in danger. I lead them here like you said. I could be with anyone. Having me here could kill you all, so take your revenge. Kill me."
The crease between his brows deepened further. "I'm not letting you die," he simply said, his anger quiet and calm . . . still. “You put my group in harm's way. I won’t pardon you for that . . . but . . . we don’t kill the living.”
That only unnerved you further.
Was this truly Death?
Surely he had killed before.
Although . . . you supposed perhaps he’d only just ever waited. Was that his fault? Waiting for the dead to find him? Is that how he found you in those woods? Is that how he’d taken your arm and helped you crossover to the other side? But . . . if that were true . . . where was your father now? Surely, he would’ve come to see you. Surely, he would’ve been the first one knocking at your door. Surely, he’d be here.
As you briefly wet your lips, your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Where’s my dad?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
A look of deep confusion twisted onto Death’s face, and then he was leaning forward to feel your forehead with the back of his hand. “Fever,” he mumbled more to himself before he pushed himself to his feet, the chair screeching against the floor. “Get some rest. Someone will be in to bandage you up and . . . I’ll be back in a couple hours with medication.” His gaze dropped to the large gash on your arm from just a few nights ago. “When you’re healed, we’ll give you some supplies and then you’ll be on your way, understood?”
But you just stared at him, silently pleading. Pleading for what? You didn’t know. All you knew was if your father wasn’t here, you couldn’t be dead. And if you weren’t, you wanted to be. You’d be able to find him then, because although you were no longer a girl who could kneel in church, you could still feel the scabs on your knees from years ago; you could still remember what it was to believe so blindly; you could still feel that insistent desire for there to be something beyond this world . . . something after this world.
There just had to be. You had to see him again. You had to find him.
You could die now. You could find him now. You would find him.
“Great,” Death muttered under his breath, breaking you out of your own mind. And with one final glance at your exhausted body, he began to turn and head for the door.
Fear struck you then. You had to find your father. “Wait, please—” you hastily grabbed onto his arm, only being able to reach his hand enough to dig your nails into his skin to halt him— “I beg of you.”
His eyes snapped to yours, wide and cautious as if at any moment, one wrong move and he’d grant your wishes. And all you could do was hope.
“Kill me,” you weakly whispered, hopelessly searching his eyes.
His brows twitched, taken back.
“Death,” you begged in a whisper, your bottom lip trembling, “please.”
But Death only stared back at you with a perplexing look written across his face. It was as if he couldn’t believe your request. Had no one ever begged him to die?
A heavy beat of silence pounded in your ears.
Death only continued to stare, a world raging on behind his eyes as he took you in. His demeanor was still calm, still collected, but he seemed . . . perturbed by your request, by your presence, by you. And you watched as his eyes trickled across your face, searching for something until finally . . . his gaze zeroed in on your cheek, his brows furrowing.
Then . . . you felt it.
A tear had slowly begun to slip down your cheek as if your body knew it was a sin to cry. But you were . . . crying that was.
You nearly gasped.
Another tear trickled down your cheek. Guilt followed.
But just as you were about to angrily wipe it away, there was a sharp knock at the door, breaking both you and Death out of your spell. The door opened a second later, a man peaking his head in with a solemn look on his face.
The man didn’t spare you a glance, he only cleared his throat and said, “Chris?” His brows raised, a silent message passing between the two. “A minute.”
Death only nodded, and then the man was gone, the door shutting behind him. Silence followed, but Death stayed unmoving, his arm still in your tight grasp.
“You won’t run,” he slowly spoke, his words a statement, not an order, but he didn’t turn to look at you. He kept his eyes on the door. “I don’t kill the living. I won’t kill you.” He paused, audibly swallowing, and then his eyes were on you. “And I know you won’t kill us.”
And then he was gone before you could blink, quickly tearing his arm out of your grasp before he reached the door and closed it behind him. You were alone with yourself once again, your thoughts running wild as your hand remained outstretched, almost frozen in place.
I know you won’t kill us, he’d told you.
But how could you kill Death? How did he know you wouldn’t if he didn’t give you what you wanted? How could he be so sure that you weren’t a killer, when you so clearly were?
You had killed before, and if he didn’t take you to the other side, you’d surely kill again. That was who you had become. That was who you were. He should’ve known that.
And then as you slowly laid your head back onto the pillow and allowed the minutes to tick by, the throbbing in your head began to subside, and the world became a little clearer. You were no longer a girl who could kneel in church. You did not believe anymore. The world had gone to shit, and it wasn’t because of God’s plan. There were no Horsemen. Your family was gone. And that . . . that man had not been Death.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you swallowed thickly. What was happening to you?
It all hit you then.
These were a group of survivors. That man surely was their leader, and you had just led hundreds of the dead to their doorstep. They should’ve killed you for that alone. You would’ve. You wouldn’t even hesitate if this had been your family. You would’ve done everything to keep them safe, even if it meant killing others, and yet . . .
I won’t kill you.
But why? You deserved it. You could see it in his eyes that he knew.
These were good people. And you were their bad omen.
It wouldn’t be long before your presence brought misery upon them, too, just as it had to your family. And it’d be all your fault.
You’d live, only to see many die. You’d make it out unscathed just as you always had, while they’d suffer, just as he had said.
It was then you realized this was not your purgatory, it was your Hell.
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taglist:
@amaranth-writing @binchanluvrr @dreamingsmile @eternalrajin
(i did post the teaser like a year ago, so if you want to be taken off, send me a lil message <3)
109 notes · View notes
chansshands · 2 days
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Bed bugs
Pairing: Idol! Chan x fem! reader
Genre: smut, fluff, maybe crack idk
Warnings: slight choking (just a hand on the neck, nothing more) (f! receiving), dry humping, oral sex (m! receiving), make-out session, cuddles, mention of Chan's room.
Author notes: when I first started writing "Physiotherapy and Coconut Oil" back at the beginning of October, I was convinced to write it as fluff, mainly because I can't write smut; after a couple of weeks, I left it in my drafts, and leave it there till the first two weeks of December, I was under heavy medication bc I had a painful surgery on my foot, and the only thing that helped to go through insomnia caused by the pain was writing that story, I wrote and wrote day and night, and it helped so so much, that's why I was shocked when @ardef38 asked for a pt 2, so here you go love, I hope you like it.
(Kinda proof read, it’s 1:40 am as I’m ’reading’ this so, be patient I’ll correct any mistakes later)
Fun fact: I do really ride motorcycles since I was 17 (and yes I may be reckless).
Word count: +4k (I got carried away I’m sorry)
Thank you so much, I really, really appreciate all the feedback, I love you all.🩷
Sincerely Glo
As always, requests are open!
-✉️
I'm so insecure about my English. As I said, it's not my first language, and I'm always scared to make mistakes or stuff like that. So, if you find mistakes, please let me know. I'll be thankful, and my English will improve!
-✉️
You can read part one here
"Stop moving. I'm trying to sleep."
he mumbles on your back
"I can't, I'm sorry."
You mumble
"Why? What is happening, baby?"
he asks, hugging you tighter
"Uhm, I'm sorry my insomnia is bothering me, I-i don't know why."
"What can I do for you? A cup of tea? cuddles?"
he asks
"I don't know either, honestly, usually I stay in bed and stare at the ceiling."
"It's a common thing?"
he whispers, almost like he doesn't want to be heard by someone
"What? That I can't sleep? Oh yeah, definitely.”
you say, turning yourself towards him
"Mh"
"You should be tired, you know that? after a full day of work and after what we did."
he says
"I know, Channie, but my brain can't shut down."
"I have an idea."
he says, hugging you tighter, your head on his chest with his hand between your hair
"What?"
you ask, looking at him
"Shhhh, just close your eyes and relax, okay?"
"Mh, okay. I doubt that whatever you're about to do, you'll make me fall asleep."
"Shshhh"
close your eyes
go to sleep
know my love is all around
dream in peace
when you wake
you will know I'm still with you
He repeats the verse over and over until you don't hear him anymore.
You know that you fall asleep because of his voice and the lullaby that he was singing, and the way he was stroking your hair gently, but mostly because he's warm; one time, someone said that he's like the feeling of walking in a warm room after spending the whole day out in the cold. It's true he really is like that domestic feeling.
"Good morning, ray of sunshine. How did you sleep?"
he asks you when you walk into your kitchen
"Oh, good morning. I thought you were already gone and good. I don't know which magic you've put in your cuddles and voice, but I haven’t slept like this in months."
you say
"Gone? No, I had to make you breakfast since I've slept over and used your bathroom to shower. I also used your body wash. Now I know why you smell so good."
he says while working on something at the stove
"That's why the bottle is half empty."
you giggle, hugging him from behind
"I'm sorry. I'll rebuy it for you."
he says
"Ya, it's okay, you don't have to. you smell like me now,"
"Yep, and trust me, I love it."
he says
"Yeah?"
"Mhmm"
"Aaah, you're warm, Channie it's freezing today even if it's mid-summer."
you say, hugging him from behind
"It has rained all night, we didn't notice because we were...umh...busy."
he says, turning towards you
"Busy...yeah...Chan, oh my god, it was...did I do these?"
you ask, touching his neck and chest
"No, no, it was a bed bug."
"Ehi -you slap his chest- I-god, I'm sorry."
"Yeah, me too. we got carried away, didn't we?"
he says, touching your neck and making you shiver
"Definitely, but I'm going to be honest I don't mind it and I don’t regret it.”
you say, smiling and kissing him on his naked chest
"Chan...-you say, sniffing around- something is burning."
"NO THE PANCAKES!"
he quickly turns towards the stove, swearing and mumbling against the burnt cakes
"Fuck, i-i wanted to make you breakfast."
he pouts, looking at the burnt pancakes
"It's okay, Channie -you giggle- thing like this happens when you're distracted."
"So you're saying that is your fault?"
he asks, looking at you, one of his dimples popping out
"Yeah, definitely."
you laugh
"Okay, put something on. I'll buy you breakfast."
"No."
you say
"Yes."
he says
"No."
"Yes."
"I said no."
"And I said yes."
"Channie, you don't have to"
"But I want to"
he says
"But-ugh, what if people see us around."
you say
"You're part of the staff, and we can go to the JYP cafeteria, the one inside the building."
"Mh, okay, but with one condition."
"Which one?"
he asks
a smirk appears on your face
"I don't like that smile."
he says
"I'll take you to the building with my motorcycle."
"You-you can ride?"
he asks
"yeah, I thought you liked it when I did it on your-"
"Shsh, don't-shut up, okay, okay."
he says, covering your mouth with one of his hands
"You're not reckless, aren't you?"
he asks with a worried tone
"Me? Reckless? absolutely not."
you smile
"That smile...I don't trust you."
"Not my business, Channie."
10 minutes later, you are in the elevator, and funny to say, but both of you choose a black hoodie (mostly because you have to cover your hickeys and not to catch a cold since the air is fresher)
"You copied my outfit."
you say, looking at him
"Do it look like I'm wearing Doc Martens and leggings?"
he asks, looking at you
"No, even if you would look good in leggings, but your outfit is total black, just like mine."
"I always dress like this."
“I aLwAyS dReSs LiKe ThIs”
You mock him
“It’s true, my whole wardrobe is black.”
"Yeah, but you still copied my outfit."
you smile, walking outside the elevator, Chan being by your side
"Jagiya.."
he says
"Mh?"
you say, not paying attention to the feeling that you felt in your stomach after that nickname
"I'm scared."
he says, looking at his feet
"About..?"
you say opening your garage door
"I've never been on a motorcycle."
he says shyly
"It's okay, Channie. There is a first time for everything. I'm going to explain everything, okay?"
"You-fuck, you can drive this thing?"
he asks
"Yeah, she's my baby."
"Baby? it's huge, how can you manage to drive this?"
you shrug your shoulders, looking at him
"I just do it, just trust me okay?"
"I do trust you."
he says
"Yeah?"
you ask, looking at him, and he simply nods
"Okay, big boy, put this on."
you say, giving him one of your motorcycle jackets
"I hope it fits; one of my friends gifted it to me, but she took three sizes bigger than mine, and I couldn't return it."
"It's a little bit tight on my shoulders."
he says, closing the zip
"It fits perfectly; you have protections, so it has to be tight."
you say, zipping your protective jacket
"It's weird. I'm not used to tight things."
he says, putting his backpack on his shoulders again
"Now, move, I have to take the motorcycle out of the garage. Can you grab the two helmets there? and when you're out, close the door, please."
you say, pointing at a wood cabinet. You press the clutch and move backward with the motorcycle; when the bike is in the correct position, you press down the stand.
"Okay, give me these."
you say, taking the helmets from his hands
"I'm going to put the helmets on you, okay, and I'll explain everything."
you say, putting the helmet on him. You do the same with yours
"Does it feel loose?"
you ask
"No, it's perfect."
you can see him smiling even if half of his face is covered
"And now -you press the inter-phone button- can you hear me?"
"Oh yeah, it's like you're inside my head."
he giggles
you turn on your bike, leaving her roar
"Damn, it's loud."
he giggles
"Okay, so -you say, straddling the motorcycle pushing the stand up with your foot- use that thing to get on and sit here."
you say, patting on the small sitting place for him
"Are you sure you can-?"
he asks
"Yes, trust me, Chan, I've been riding since I was 17."
you smile at him
he sits behind you, getting more comfortable once the bike is stable
"See? You won't fall; both of my feet are on the ground."
"Keep your feet there when we're on the road, don't put them on the ground at a red light or a stop sign. You have to put your arms around me tight or on the tank, especially when I brake; you'll feel it, so don't worry. When we take a turn, you have to follow me with your body. You're basically my shadow, or even better, my backpack, so follow every movement I make, okay?"
you say
"Yep"
"Now, arms around me."
you say, waiting for his arms
"Hold on tight."
you say before pressing the clutch with your left and putting the first gear with your left foot
"Here we goooo."
you say
"Oh my god, we're moving, ahah wow."
"Hold on tight, Channie."
you say, patting on his hands
"That's-wow, oh my god."
"You want me to go faster?"
you say once you're on the road
"Fuck yes"
he says
and you do as he said. You accelerate and shift gear; the sun has been out for hours, so the road is dry now.
"How does it feel?"
you ask him
"It's like, I don't know how to explain it."
"Freedom?"
you suggest
"Yeah, yes, that's the right word."
he says
"That's why you do it? I mean, that's why you drive?"
you hear his voice through the inter-phone, and you simply nod.
"Can you go faster? I wanna feel free."
he says
"Of course."
you giggle, and you shift once again the gear, the two of you speeding in the streets of Seoul, zig-zagging between the buses, cars, and taxis
"Oh my gooood, too fast, too fast"
he almost screams
"Ahahah, just hold onto me, and you'll be fine, Channie. Trust me."
the grip of his arms around your waist getting tighter
"You're crazy."
he says
"I know"
"And reckless, and oh my god, I want to do this every day."
he says
"I know -you laugh- should I pick you up tomorrow?"
"Oh, I—I'm not that brave. God, you have a big pair of balls to drive a thing like this. I could never."
"Oh, you could, and you would look so hot in one of these, with a compression shirt on-ush what a vision."
you say
"Are you fantasizing about me?"
he asks
"I mean, yeah, you as a biker? damn, Christopher, I would be on my knees."
you say, teasing him
"You were on your knees for me yesterday, and definitely, I'm not a biker."
he says, teasing you back
"I- you- uh- I hate you."
you say
"Yeah, yeah, it was clear with all the 'oh, ah' that you were whimpering against my ear last night."
he says, placing one of his hands on your thighs
"Oh-you-shut up"
you say, glad that he can't see the color of your cheeks
"Here we are person that I absolutely hate, and it's banned from my house."
you say braking and turning off the motorcycle once you're in the proper park
"Oh c'mon, I was joking -he says, taking off his helmet- I'll never mention cute whimpers again."
he pouts
"Shhh, are you crazy talking about this here?"
"Right, 'm sorry, where do I put this?"
he asks, lifting his helmet
"Oh, just bring it with you."
you say
"So...umh, breakfast?"
he asks, breaking the silence between the two of you
"Yeah, breakfast."
you sigh, looking at him, his hair messed up because of the helmet
"Ladies first"
he says, opening the front door of the building for you
"Oh, what a gentleman."
you say, walking toward the elevator, bowing to the person who just stepped out of the elevator
"Yeah, gentleman."
he mumbles, pressing the number three, and once the elevator doors closed, you talk
"What you're mumbling about?"
you look at him
"Nothing"
"Chan, c'mon, you can't do this after what we did."
"I'm -he sighs- I let you go first to look at your ass in those stupid leggings, so I'm not a gentleman."
he crosses his arms
"Oh, well, I'll make sure to put them more often."
you say, shrugging your shoulders
"You're not mad?"
he asks
"that you look at my ass when you can? No. You literally saw me naked, so that's nothing of this -you point at your whole body- that you haven't seen."
"Mh, good to know."
he smirks, and once the lift doors open, he goes
"Ladies first, of course."
he winks at you and you can do nothing but laugh at him.
after a couple of minutes of indecision, his indecision actually, he brings to the table two tall cups of cappuccino and a piece of cake for him
"You sure that you don't want a bite?"
he asks, offering you a piece of pie
"Hundred percent Chan"
you smile at him
"Do you have to work today?"
he asks
"Uhm... no, I don't think so, actually. I'm here just for breakfast—you giggle—why?"
"I have to meet with Han and Binnie for some fixes on a new song and do the usual Sunday live, so...would you mind coming with me?"
"I- you- you want me in your studio?"
"Yes"
"The one where no one is allowed?"
"Mhmm"
he nods, sipping on his cappuccino
"The one where the darker aura Christopher works?"
"Yes, that one."
"Mh, okay, if you... don't mind having me there."
you shrug your shoulders
"I don't mind it. You have a relaxing effect on me."
he says
"Interesting"
you say, sipping on your coffee
"The boys are already there. Should we go?"
"I follow you, mister dark aura."
"Oh, shut up."
he says, looking at you
"Hello everyone"
he says, entering in the studio
"Hi Hyung"
the bandmates say at the same time
"Oh, y/n? Hi, what are you doing here?"
"I-uh, I saw him in the middle of the street, he was like an abandoned puppy."
"Hey"
he says, sitting down in his working chair
"So I offered him a ride on my motorbike, and to pay me back, he offered me breakfast."
you laugh nervously
"You ride a motorcycle?"
changbin asks
"Yes? why does everybody find this weird."
you say
"I don't know, you don't look like someone who rides a motorcycle."
Binnie says
"But I am."
you laugh, sitting on the couch in the studio
The three men start working on the new song. You're not paying too much attention because
1. you're too distracted by the way Chan gets so severe when he's at work, so bossy but at the same time gentle with his members
2. you're working too, on your phone, but you're working, planning all the appointments with the members and the artists of JYP
"Oh, looks like someone had fun last night."
you hear Han's voice, and you're head snaps toward his direction so fast that you hear a crack in your neck
"Yeah, you weren't home last night. Where were you last night, Chan?"
Changbin says
then you notice that Chan took off his hoodie, revealing all the hickeys and bite marks on his neck
"What?"
he asks, looking at them
"Your neck Chan, what the fuck? What did you do?"
Han asks
"Uh, bed bugs."
he says, typing and clicking on his computer, not paying too much attention to them
"Yeah, a big one."
Han says
"One with human teeth"
Changbin laughs
"Oh shut up, the two of you."
Chan says, his cheeks turning pink
"Who is she?"
asks the two gossipy men
"No one, it was a bed bug."
he says once again
"Do you know anything about this?"
Changbin asks, and both of them turn toward you
"Uh, bed bugs are big these days."
you shrug your shoulders
"Mh, yeah."
they look at each other with a smirk
after a couple of minutes, they stopped asking about his marks and focused again on their work, recording some chorus, laughing when someone went out of tune, and listening over and over again at the song till it was perfect
"Aaaaand we're done."
Chan says, stretching up his arms in the air and clapping at the work of 3racha
"Aaaagh, I'm hungry."
Changbin says
"Me too."
Han says
"Hyung, y/n wanna join us for lunch?"
"Oh no, I must go now, maybe next time."
you smile at them
"I have to do the live so."
chan says
"Oh, okay."
they say
"Bye Hyung, Y/N see you on Tuesday."
Han says
"Bye guys, see you."
you smile
"Hyung, see you at the dorm and make sure to eat, or you get nervous, little bed bug…See you on Tuesday."
Binnie says, smiling at you and closing the door behind his back
"HOW THE FUCK DID HE?"
you say, covering your face with your hands
"He's not stupid."
Chan says
"But don't worry, they won't spill anything to anyone, that's for sure."
he gets up from his chair, locks the door of the studio, and walks toward you
"Ugh, are you sure?"
you ask, your voice muffled by your hands
"Yes, I trust them with my whole life. They're nosy, I know, but we have a rule: what happens or what we say in the studio stays in the studio."
He says, sitting next to you.
"Are you sure? I- I loved hat we did, and I love our bond, but I don't want to lose my job, Chan, I've worked so hard to be here, and I don't want to ruin everything because I had sex with you."
you say, looking at him
"Ouch"
he says
"No, no, I don't want you to think that I'm using you because I'm not okay? I loved our friendship way before what happened last night."
"I get what you're saying, y/n, don't worry, it's just that you're...I don't know…after what we did, I don't know what are we? friends? Best friends? friends with benefits?"
he looks at you
"Friends with..."
"Benefits, you know, two friends that have sex occasionally but remain friends."
"Yeah, Chan, I know what friends with benefits are."
"So?"
"What?"
you ask
"Friends with benefits? it will be our dirty little secret."
he says
"Mh, friends with benefits"
you nod
"Let's start this thing from now, yeah?"
he says, pulling your face towards him
"Yes, fuck yes."
you say, breaking the distance between the two of you, kissing his plumped lips again
"The door is locked, and we have about thirty minutes."
he says between the kisses
"Ugh, not enough time."
you say, pulling back from him
"We can go back to my place after the live, yeah?"
he nods, kissing your lips again, more roughly this time. You shift your position, straddling him, your legs on the side of his thighs
"It's not-that simple to- touch you with these stupid- mhpf yoga pants."
he says, kissing your lips
"You said that you loved them."
you say
"Yeah, and now I hate them; I can't touch you properly, which frustrates me."
He says, pulling you closer to him. You can feel his bulge against your clit
"It's okay, we don't need to take our pants off."
you say, smiling at him
"What- why? c'mon, I wanna see that pretty pussy of yours."
he says, frustrated, leaving his head against the headrest of the couch
"Mh, not now."
you say, starting to grind on his hard bulge
"Oh shit, what- do it again, please,"
he says, placing his hands on your hips, guiding you back and forth against him. You kiss gently his neck, trying not to bite him or suck his soft skin because his neck is already a mess.
"You- god"
he tries to say, one of his hands traveling around your body, grabbing one of your breasts under the hoodie
"Uh? you're not wearing a bra?"
he says
"Nope, free the nipples, Christopher."
You laugh while looking at him, poor guy, he looks desperate
"Fuck, full access all this time? Why didn’t you tell me? God, y/n, you're going to drive me crazy."
he says, kissing your lips. You laugh in his lips and keep grinding on his hard cock
"Please take your hoodie off, I want- at least I want to see your boobs."
"Uhm, so needy, aren't you?"
you ask, and he simply nods
you take off your hoodie, shivering, not because you're cold, no it's way too hot in the room, but because of the way that he looks at you; it looks like he wants you to eat you alive, literally. He licks his lips, looking at your boobs at then looking at your face, his eyes jumping between your two twins and your eyes
"What?"
you ask, looking at him, moving a clump of hair from his face
"I want to suck them."
he simply says
"Then do it. Don't be shy, Christopher."
"Oh, don't call me like that."
he says, looking at you, his eyes darkened
"I know that you like it, just admitted."
you whisper to his ear
"Mphf, if you don't stop grinding on me, I'll cum in my pants."
he says
"And? there's no shame in cumming in your pants, I love to see you so desp-shit"
you say, trying to find any other word to say, but your brain is short-circuiting, his tongue is moving around one of your breasts, sucking on the nipple, while with one hand, he pays attention to the other one
"I wanna live here."
he says, sucking and biting your nipple
"Mhpf, in the studio?"
you tease him even if you know what he meant
"Mh -he breaks off the contact between his mouth and your breast- between your boobs, I want to live here, they're-fuck, they're like a warm marshmallows."
you laugh
"I'm dead serious, y/n"
he looks at you so seriously that you have to cover your mouth not to laugh. You kiss his lips, making him smile
"You're going to be late, so let me do something for you, yeah?"
you say, shifting position and getting on your knees in front of him
"Oh fuck"
he says, pulling his pants down, revealing his hard dick
"You're going to drive me crazy, you know that?"
he says, caressing your face
"That's the point, Christopher."
you say, kissing one of his naked thighs
"Please, jagiya, please."
he says in a desperate tone. That nickname again, heavy like a rock on your chest, just friends with benefits, correct?
So you do what a good friend would do, you take his boner with your hands, stroking him up and down a couple of times, licking the tip, focusing on that particular sensitive part, making him whimper.
You take all of him in your mouth, breathing through your nose; you look up at him, his head on the headrest, his eyes closed, enjoying every moment, one of his hands in your hair, scratching your scalp gently.
You keep working with your mouth and tongue, adding once again your dominant hand, just because you can't take all of him in your mouth.
"Jagi...fuck."
"Uh, language, please."
you say, taking him out of your mouth without stopping working with your hand.
"How am I supposed not to say bad words when you're on your knees sucking me off?"
he asks, looking down at you
"You're dramatic."
you say, retaking him in your mouth, you know that he's about to cum because he's throbbing in your mouth
"Baby, i'm-i'm about to."
he can't even finish the sentence that a load of fluid goes into your mouth, you swallow it all the way.
You clean the corner of your mouth with your fingers and stay on your knees, looking up at him with a stupid smile on your face.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
He says, pulling his pants up
“I’m not looking at you in any particular way.”
“Yes, you are, come here.”
He says, patting the place next to him
“Thank you”
He says when you sit next to him
“You don’t have to thank me, Channie.”
“I have to, I told you that you have a relaxing effect on me. And I’m talking generally, not when we...do other stuff, you know, even when we do them, but..."
“I get what you’re saying, Channie.”
You giggle
“Aagh, come here.”
He says, placing a hand on your neck and pulling towards him
“No, wait, I’ve just…”
“I don’t care, y/n, just kiss me, please.”
You sigh, and you kiss his lips, it’s a quick kiss, almost as if you did it every day
“You’re going to be late.”
You say, touching his forehead with yours
“I know, but I have to do it, it’s a safe space for me, and stays.”
“I know”
You say, pecking his lips once again
“I’m in my studio, I wait for you there, okay?”
You say, putting your hoodie on
“Mh, okay, thank you y/n, really.”
He says, kissing your cheek
“That’s what a good friend would do.”
You smile at him
“Yeah, good friend.”
He echos you
“Bye, bed bug.”
He says when you unlock the door
“Bye, Channie -you giggle at the nickname- don’t forget to put your hoodie on.”
“I won’t, thank you.”
He says, smiling, dimples on full display
Good friends, right?
A friend that has marked you all over your body
A friend you would go to live with just to have breakfast ready every morning
A friend that makes you feel butterflies,
A friend that fucks you till your brain short-circuit
A friend who makes you fall asleep while singing and cuddling
Maybe he’s more than “A friend”
A/N: me after writing this 🏃🏻‍♀️💨
Tag list: @paboswriting (because of the mention of biker Chan, we have an obsession about him)
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skz when you say “i love you” for the first time.. and it’s in bed
pairing: ot8 x reader
genre: soft smut. mostly sweet and fluffy.
word count: ~2.9k
warnings: general soft smut, oral, fingering (on my jeongin hand kink bs again), pet names, seungmin is kinda rough, i think that’s all?
an: this is a repost from my recently deceased blog hyunjins-orange-slice. may she rest in peace.
masterlist
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channie:
would be so so so soft about it. 🥺
he had known that he is in love with you for a while now but always was too scared to say it. he didn’t want you to feel like he was moving too fast. but it was constantly running through his mind. so when the moment comes where he is deep inside you, his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you tight to his chest, his broad shoulders shielding you from everything, his scent completely enveloping you, his dark curls tickling your cheek as he leans in and presses a kiss to your neck. when you’re shaking under him and whimpering his name and coming undone around his cock, and then he hears it. mid orgasm, a gentle ‘i love you’ slips past your lips.
he has to pull back a little to look you in the eye, searching your face for any signs of regret. but all he found were your big doe eyes, filled with love and brimming tears. “baby, what did you just say?” he would ask, quietly. a whisper of disbelief.
cheeks going red, thinking maybe it was too soon for you to have said such a thing, you look away from him and mumble “i said, i— i love you.”
“that’s what i thought you said.” he would lean in and kiss you, the softest sweetest kiss he’s ever given you, before whispering against your lips “i love you too.” then he would kiss you again before repeating, “i love you so much.”
he would relax his body into you, his forehead resting against yours, the occasional peck against your skin. before saying it one last time before you slip into sleep, “i love you.”
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minho:
also a big softie about it but gets nervous
he’s got your knees up by your ears, you body bent in half under him, full mating press, his strong arms caging your head. his hair falls in his eyes, tickling your forehead, his hot breath fanning against your cheek as he pants. he’s hitting that perfect spot inside you, your walls clenching around him.
“fu-fuck baby, you’re clenching.” he grunts.
you admire his sharp, handsome features. you notice the sheen of sweat on his forehead. your heart swells in your chest. he’s making you feel so good, you can’t help but to cradle his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.
“minho..” a moaned whisper. you let your thumb rub across his cheek. “minho, baby, i love you.” you confess.
his thrusts stutter and then stop. he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t even really move, he just looks away from your face, chuckling nervously. his thrusts slowly start up again. you turn your head to place a gentle kiss on his toned arm. his head drops and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. he’s grunting, thrusting in and out at a good pace. he kisses your neck gently before saying “you love me?”
you wrap your arms around his shoulders. “yes. i really do.”
“i love you too.” he says into your neck. and his voice is filled with such emotion that you believe him. and as his thrusts get faster and sloppier with the approach of his release, he moves his lips from your neck to your mouth, kissing you softly. and as he cums, his cock twitching inside you, he says it again. “i love you.”
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binnie:
would immediately get so excited about it
you’re straddling him, sitting on the couch, his cock sliding in and out of you as you slowly bounce on him. his hands are at your hips, squeezing and helping you with your motions.
“there you go, bunny. you’re doing so good.” he says, brushing your hair out of your face and behind your ear.
you feel so good with him inside you, so full. and when you pull your eyes away from where you two are connected and you look at his face, your heart flutters. his natural hair was wavy and still air drying from his shower. his glasses slowly sliding down his nose, his bottom lip in between his teeth, his broad chest on full display for you to look at. you moved your hands from his shoulders where they were supporting you, down to his large biceps. you gave his muscles a light squeeze. he looked up at you and smiled.
you smiled back at him and leaned down to place a soft kiss on his lips. his hands slowly moved from your hips, up your back, his fingertips leaving goosebumps.
“i love you, binnie.” you whispered.
the slow thrusts stopped and he held you in place.
“what was that, bun?” he asked, looking into your eyes now.
“i said, i love you.” a smile started to spread across his face, his heart pounding.
“you love me?” he asked excitedly. “you’ve never said that before.” he was downright giddy. he pulled you close, wrapped his big arms around you, and kissed your hair. “i love you too, bunny.” he said, shaking your body with his excitement. his thrusts started up again, slightly faster this time, you were still on top of him but he was doing all the work.
“so sweet.” he grunted. “i love my little bunny. love her so much.” he kissed any part of you he could reach— your cheek, your shoulder, your lips, your neck, your chest— as he brought you both close to your high.
and when you both reached that peak, and everything went still, he lazily smiled and exhaled on a shaky breath, “i love you.”
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hyunjin:
would say it before you did
it was early morning, the sheets a rumpled mess around you, the window open, the long curtains blowing in the breeze. he was on top of you, his soft kisses moving from your pussy, to your navel, to your sternum and making their way back up. he looked at you through his hair, his face covered in your arousal, his cock brushing against your entrance, and you thought you had never been happier. you’ve never felt this closely attached to someone. never felt this amount of pull toward another person. never felt like your heart may burst at any moment, being unable to hold the amount of feelings you have for him.
he kissed your neck, kissed your jaw, kissed your lips. “you’re a goddess.” he whispered against your skin, before slowly sliding inside you. you both groaned at the feeling of it. his head fell to rest in the crook of your neck, your arms wrapping around him. he lay still, letting you adjust to his size. he placed a kiss on your collar bone before whispering, “i love you.” his breath tickled against your skin. and though you were surprised at hearing these words for the first time, you didn’t hesitate to return his sentiment.
“i love you too, jinnie.” you say, your hands tangling in his hair. he pulls back, supporting himself on his hands either side of your head and looks deep into your eyes. he stares for a moment, but then must find what he was searching for, because he leans down and kisses your lips.
“i love you.” he says against your lips. “i love you.” kiss. “i love you.” kiss. he starts to move in and out slowly, your eyes falling closed in bliss. “i love you.”
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jisung:
would get so adorably nervous
you had your mouth around him, your favorite thing. his length sliding in and out from between your lips, your spit dripping down his balls. his head was thrown back, little whimpers leaving his throat as he fights the urge to thrust up into your mouth. you were taking your time, savoring him, teasing him, but most of all, admiring him.
he was so soft and handsome above you, his cheeks flushed a light pink, his hair tousled. his eyes shut and his lips parted and slightly damp. his hands were in fists at his sides. you run your palms up his thighs, before grabbing his hands, intertwining his fingers with yours. you squeezed his hands and his head fell forward, his eyes opening to look at you, his pupils blown with lust.
you pulled off of his cock with a pop. you rose from your knees and straddled his lap, bringing your hands to cup his face as you kissed him. “you want to know something, sungie?” you ask him sweetly. he nods, thinking he would very much like to know something, but currently he knows nothing but the pleasure you’re bringing him.
you lined his cock up to your entrance and slowly sank down on him. his eyes rolled back, his hands on your hips, fingers digging into your skin.
“i love you.” you say to him.
his eyes went wide, his cheeks flushing a dark red color.
“i- you- i just- you-“ he stuttered.
you chuckled and leaned down to kiss him, slowly starting to rock your hips back and forth.
“i love you sungie. such a sweet boy.” you kissed him. “a perfect boy.”
you started to ride him harder, his breath coming in pants. “fu-fuck.” he said, his high approaching.
“you gonna cum, baby?” you asked him, squeezing around his cock. he nods vigorously and right as he cums, before the first twitch of his cock, before the first drop of cum enters your pussy, he says it. and he repeats it, over and over as he’s cumming. his voice shaky. “i love you. i love you”
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felix
would be so sweet and might cry
he was slowly thrusting into you, his body weight on yours, tired after his first orgasm but not wanting to quit. he wants to give you as many as he physically can, or until you tell him to stop. your mind is hazy, full of nothing but him. nothing else exists, except him. you wondered what you did to deserve him. if you thought about it too hard, you might cry. he was panting into your ear, your pussy fluttering around him.
“fuck- angel-“ he moans, breathy. he pulls back to look at you, your eyes glassy, almost brimming with tears. he rubs his thumb across your cheek, his thrusts slowing due to his worry.
“no-no don’t slow down, please lixie.” you beg, so close to the edge.
“okay, baby. i won’t.” he cooed. “come on angel, you can do it. let go for me.”
and you did. your nails dug into his arms as your body shook. and then the tears spilled over onto your cheeks. a look of panic crossed his features.
“baby? what’s wrong?” he asks. “did i hurt you?” he pulls out, leaving you feeling empty. he cradles your face in his hands, wiping your tears away as they fall.
“talk to me, angel. please.”
how do you even begin to explain to him what you were currently feeling? you didn’t think you could.
“i- i love you.” you said quietly through your tears. he looked a little surprised. “i’m sorry-“
“what? don’t be sorry.” he kissed you gently. “i love you too.”
you looked up and your eyes met his, and they mirrored your own. “you do?” you asked.
a single tear fell down his sweet freckled face as he kissed you yet again. “of course i do. i have for a while. and i will, forever. i love you.”
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seungmin
would be a menace about it but loves you more
he was towering over you, his hands fisted in your hair, his cock as far down your throat as he could get it. tears were streaming down your face, but you loved it. pleasing him this way was your favorite and he knew that. but you could tell he still worried about you from time to time. he would get lost for a moment, thrusting in and out of your mouth, grunting, getting lost in his pleasure. but then he would pull out and briefly assess your face, checking on you. tonight he was being extra rough, which you welcomed. he had a long day at the company and just needed to get it out. so you begged him to.
"use me. please minnie.” you would say. and it would be his undoing. that’s how you found yourself on your knees in front of him. he had placed a pillow on the floor to help cushion your knees a bit, ever the gentleman. and he looked incredibly sexy above you, panting, his hair in disarray, some strands sticking to his forehead. and you knew that if tonight was like the other nights that he used you like this, when he was done he would dote on you and coo at you and massage you or draw you a bath. you loved to please him this way but you loved seungmin’s aftercare just as much. and you were reminded again in this moment, his cock all the way down your throat, your spit dripping down your chin, how much you loved him. truly loved him. and you had yet to tell him. you didn’t want to force anything on him, make him feel like he needed to say it back to you if he wasn’t ready. but you found it hard to hold your tongue in this moment when he pulled out and asked: “‘you doin okay, pup?”
and you answered with a simple, “i love you.”
the look on his face went blank for a moment before he smiled at you, his sweet loving smile he used in the aftercare. but that smile slowly turned devilish as he shoved his cock back in your throat. “you’re such a simp for me, huh? my cock make you feel that good?”
your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he used you, you attempting to nod in answer to his question. and soon after, he came, shooting his load down your throat which you greedily swallowed. he stood above you, panting, bringing his hand to cup your cheek. you nuzzled into his palm.
“you love me, huh?” he asked, smirking.
you just nodded, unable to form words just yet, but looked up at him with glassy eyes and messy cheeks.
“well, hate to break it to you, but i love you more.” he stated. “lets go get you a bath, pup.” he helped you off the floor and led you to the bathroom. as the tub filled, he pulled you against his chest, kissing the top of your head before whispering against your hair, “‘i love you.”
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innie
would make you repeat it.
he had his fingers in your mouth. he had the fingers from the other hand in your pussy. they lazily thrust in and out as he leans close to whisper in your ear.
"you get all messy just thinking about my fingers, dont you?" he whispered, his breath tickling your neck. you nodded. "ah ah." he chided. "tell me, use words. let me hear your pretty voice, baby."
you werent sure if you could, with his fingers in your mouth. he notices the trepidation on your face. "you can do it, baby. ill understand you. tell me. "
"ye-yes. your fingers are so good, innie. you make me feel so good." you mumble around his fingers.
"there you go." he praised. he pulled his fingers out of your mouth and rose to his knees. he kept his fingers in your pussy, thrusting them in and out, but his other hand moved to your throat, squeezing slightly.
"fuck." you exhaled. he was a god. thats the thought that ran through your head at that moment. he was godly. but also, he was yours. he had proven that, time and time again, paying no attention to anyone but you. showering you with affection, feeding into your hand kink, making sure you knew just how cared for you were. but neither of you had ever said the L word. both a little too scared to shatter what was such a good thing. but in this moment, with his fingers deep inside you, looking down at you with lust filled heart eyes, you couldnt help yourself.
"i love you." you said, voice a little hoarse.
he removed his hand from your throat. "what was that, baby?" he asked, giving an extra hard thrust of his fingers.
"fuck- i- i love you." you repeated.
he started thrusting faster, your walls clenching around him, his other hand coming down to rub at your clit.
"im sorry, baby. one more time?" you knew that he heard you. you knew he was just teasing you at this point. the smirk on his face proved your theory.
"i love you!" you moaned out. about to tip over the edge into bliss. "oh my god, innie. dont stop." you begged. "i love you. i love you. i love you." and then you came. your pussy clamping down on his fingers, your arousal coating his hand.
"fuck, baby. there you go." he praised. once you had relaxed, and your body stopped shaking, once he had successfully helped you back down from your high, he leaned down to kiss your cheek before whispering in your ear, "i love you."
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lonelyleeknowgirly · 2 days
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Some more BANGCHAN
MDNI!
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yongbokiee-felix · 23 hours
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Channie posted on instagram
Via @/gnabnahc
“Can’t be bothered”
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hyunlix-lover4 · 23 hours
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Seungmin: Chan, when’s your birthday? Chan: Why? So you can look up my natal chart? So you can figure out my weaknesses? So you can destroy me? Seungmin: …So I know when to wish you a happy birthday.
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resi4skz · 3 days
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Cutie and hottie at the same time.
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linoswiki · 3 days
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happy 6th anniversary 💜
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bahablastplz · 3 hours
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CW: Smut
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Thinking about feral Channie who absolutely cannot get enough of you. He’s so riled up that all he can think about is fucking you fast and hard. His strong dancer hips and thighs are perfect for snapping into yours, long and hard. He’s able to reach deep inside you with each thrust, eliciting the most filthy sounds from you both. You think that maybe he’s fucking you to the beat of a song in his head that only he can hear, maybe the latest track he’s working on, because there’s no way he’s this consistent with his pace. Fucking you from behind he needs his hands full of you, grabbing bruising fistfuls of your hips or tits. When he gives you a particularly harsh thrust you can’t help the sound that leaves your mouth and you stick your face into the mattress to muffle it; a hand now intertwined in your hair grabs and pulls hard, causing your mouth to fall open in surprise. “Let. Me. Fuckin. Hear. You.” He enunciates each word with a thrust and follows it with a sharp smack to your ass, becoming faster and sloppier with the louder you are. He loves when you’re vocal about how good he’s making you feel and when you can’t stop the noises coming out of your body, matching them with his own loud grunts and heavy breathing. When you finally cum around his cock he’s a goner, spewing the filthiest praises, relentless and brutal as he fucks your through your orgasm. When you whine from the sensitivity of overstimulation he finally comes undone, spilling his release onto your ass with a loud sigh.
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wolveswithblackpearls · 17 hours
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There will come a poet;
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Whose weapon is his word;
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He will slay you with his tongue;
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<Oh lei, oh lai, oh, Lord>
~Admin J
Soldier, Poet
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diddybok · 4 months
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best friend!stray kids finding out from another member that you have a crush on them
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all characters depicted in my writing are from my own imagination and do NOT in any way represent nor reflect the people in real life :)
➩pairing: ot8 x gn!reader
➩genre(s): text, fluff
➩warnings: strong language, suggestiveness, mentions of sex, it’s implied that reader is incredibly down bad for the member
➩author’s note: no angst! no angst! we cheered. i had so much fun writing this. fun fact: the thirst comments on seungmin’s are real ones i saw in the comment section of a gojo edit on tiktok
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chris
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minho
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changbin
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hyunjin
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jisung
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felix
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seungmin
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i.n
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ʚ hope you enjoyed ^.^ you can support me by liking, commenting and reblogging! it is heavily appreciated ᵕ̈ ɞ
i do not permit my work to be translated or reposted in any way, thank you.
© 2023 diddybok
general taglist: @spacegirlstuff @chengmeiauau
if you would like to be added to the general taglist or removed, let me know in the comments, send an ask or message me!
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hyunedew · 6 months
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✧ ˚. you take their skzoo!
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you take your bf's skzoo w/o telling him
pairing: skz ot8 x reader warnings: han panics a lil bit, air fryer threats (lighthearted), my attempt at humor, food mention in chan's, seungmin is a hater LOL notes: based on this request! i am SO sorry i'm taking forever with requests!! the beginning of the school year is always a little stressful, it's definitely overwhelming lol. but i love coming back to my little blog to create content. as of rn, i'm working on the next chapter of one night or a wife! she's a BIGGEN. written chapters always take me a little bit longer, bc i beta read at least 10 times before i post LMAO. soooo for now, i'm going to pause requests until i finish up with what i have! but feel free to drop a message in my inbox to say hi :) working on a healthy work-post schedule!
masterlist, requests [PAUSED]
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bang chan + lee know
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changbin + hyunjin
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han + felix
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seungmin + i.n
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©hyunedew
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